


The Sorceress Wore Black

by Melaena



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Noir, Does not Follow Game/Novel series of events, Explicit Language, F/M, Includes character from all Witcher Games, Includes characters from Witcher novels, Minor Character Death, Noir themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 72,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9334385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melaena/pseuds/Melaena
Summary: Northern Realms, 1946At the end of the third war of the Realms, Geralt of Rivia shuts himself away from the world, his losses after the battle with W. Ilde Hunt and White Frost too great. A mysterious package implies Ciri still lives and convinces him to leave his crumbling home in search of her.  Meanwhile, magic stalks the night delivering justice in the name of one who was wronged.When all signs point to Yennefer for the murders, Geralt no longer knows who is friend or foe. He soon realizes the two tasks are intertwined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a darker vision of the Northern Realms. A black and white image of the players in a noir universe, where cynicism is king and in order to win you might lose everything. The characters are altered to fit within this idea and will diverge from canon.

Kaer Morhen, 1946

  _I never expected a happy ending. A witcher has no emotions? Yea, right. A big fucking lie_.

 Geralt shielded his eyes from the intruding sunlight. Vesemir is dead and Ciri... He turned toward the crumbling wall and sighed. Geralt knew he'd failed them both.

W. Ilde Hunt changed the face of the Continent. Hunt’s cult of crazed warriors could travel between worlds without blinking an eye. Geralt and Ciri had beaten them, but at a cost. Hunt took Vesemir’s life; the old witcher was once Geralt’s teacher, mentor, friend and partner, together they patrolled the Continent–but no longer.

Witchers - a dying breed thanks to wars, infighting and fear, learned to adapt for survival. Those who lived no longer followed the old ways -  guns replaced steel. Silver bullets took the place of silver swords and offering help to those in need–even for coin–no longer the path of the witcher.  Geralt refused to abandon Vesemir’s teachings, shutting himself away from contact with anyone.

Noises from the lower floor alerted Geralt to an intruder at the bottom of the stairs. The clink of a glass bottle kicked aside. Loose stones tumbled under encroaching footsteps.   _A curious thief maybe_ , he thought.  

His medallion didn’t hum; an early warning of magic and danger, the wolf’s head medallion hung around his neck. A quick pat at his chest revealed Geralt wasn’t wearing it. He had a vague recollection of removing the medallion at some point and discarding the piece in the mess of his bedroom. Without warning, the sounds intensified and changed, a snarl followed by a hiss. The thump of large paws and growling grew louder as two beasts continued up the stairs. Geralt knew his swords were across the room–at least they should be.   He could take on one of them unarmed, but he’d need a weapon to face two at the same time.

He readied himself for the impending attack until a breeze moved through the room. _Perfume. Lilac and gooseberries. These are Yen’s illusions, not beasts_. He called out, “that’s not funny - go away, Yen.”

The snarling beasts dissolved as she pulled back on her magic. Yennefer of Vengerberg, adviser to kings and the emperor when it suited her wiped the dust and debris from an upended chair to sit. “I’d say it was lovely to see you again Geralt, but I’m afraid I’ve come to enlist your help.  Whatever our past may still be worth, the truth is - I need you.”

 _I need you._ Her gentle plea once carried a very different meaning. Their time together ended when Ciri did not return. “Not in the mood.” He groped around the bed for the bottle of Erveluce opened the night before. 

“It is not your bed I seek, Geralt.” Her eyes focused on his search of the bedsheets. “The bottle you hunt for spilled in front of the bed. This isn’t a social call; I need a witcher. I need _you_.”

 “No. Go find Eskel. He’s somewhere in Velen.” Geralt punched the pillow and buried his head again.

Her heeled boots clacked against the floor. He shifted in response to the mattress sinking where she sat near him. “Please, Geralt, this is about Cirilla. I received a package from a messenger boy in Skellige, a simple brown paper package and a note.” Yennefer touched his shoulder.  “Geralt, it’s the bracelet we gave her. Would you please stop this utter nonsense and look!”   

A heavily scarred arm rose, palm faced up. “Fine, let me see it.”

The new scars on his arms and back she did not remember. Time lost between them resulted from his desire to blame himself for Vesemir’s death and Ciri’s disappearance. The last words spoken between them gave her no reason to suspect Geralt would leave.

_“She is strong Geralt, Cirilla will return”. Geralt waited for days for Ciri and only at Yennefer’s insistence did he return to Kaer Trolde with her until he left one morning and did not return._

Geralt distanced himself from her and everyone without explanation. The few remaining witchers took Geralt’s disappearance as proof their time was over.

Embittered at his withdrawal from the world, her irritation grew. She pushed away from the bed and pulled on the bed sheets. “No, Geralt. I’ve had enough.”

“You’re pissing me off, Yen. Go away.” Even without the medallion, he felt her magic swell. If pushed too far, she might try magical influence.

Despite her frustration, she quelled the anger within and kept her voice low and controlled. “I’m not even getting started yet, but if you will look and tell me your thoughts, I will leave you to your drink and your misery.”

Geralt turned to accept the package. It was Ciri’s bracelet. He examined it, remembering when he’d commissioned the work. _Silver filigree with a sapphire in the center. She’d had it on her wrist when she left._ He’d need to see the note as well.  “The note, anything there?”

_Leave Cirilla to her rest._

 

He did not recognize the scrawl, but the words smudged under his thumb. _Charcoal_ , he thought, _paper milled, not pressed. Rural. Farmland somewhere._ “Problem is, could be from anywhere.” Whoever delivered the bracelet to Yennefer did so for a reason.

 Yennefer couldn’t follow his comments. “What? Do you see something?”

 Turning to look at her, he smiled without thinking. She wore the leather jacket he’d given her and from head to toe adorned in her preferred color of choice.   “Do you own anything that isn’t black?”

 She grinned in return, “do you own anything that isn’t wrinkled?”  Yennefer guessed he’d slept in the same trousers and shirt for a few days. She fell easily into teasing him, her eyes settling on his short hair, cut not for style, she could only surmise the chopped hair and haphazard lengths were casualties of his current state of mind.  “What have you done to your hair?” The shock and sadness on her face at the loss of his white hair loosened her reserve. “Oh, Geralt, please, leave your hair and beard to grow, I do so prefer it long.”

 His heart thumped in response. Closing his eyes, he muttered, “I can’t do this, Yen.”

 “What do you mean?” Yennefer’s downcast eyes pulled at his chest.

 “You. . .  me. . . .us.  I’ll find Ciri. I need to visit a few people, get a line on the paper.” He pulled on his suspenders and reached for his cloak tossing it to the bed. Yennefer said nothing, but recognized it was the one Vesemir always wore.

 “Then . . .I shall return to Skellige, unless - may I give you a lift somewhere?” She asked.

 “A portal? No thanks, I can walk. See you.”  Geralt rummaged around the large dresser until he found his medallion.  “You should go.” Reaching for his harness, he felt her hand touch his back.

 “If you need me, do you still have the talisman?” Yennefer gave Geralt a talisman from the Aen Elle- the realm of the elves, they weren’t forbidden, but if he used it, she held its mate. A portal would take Geralt to her side in instant.

 “Lost it. I meant to give it to Ciri before she left.” Geralt started, “look, you need to go before anyone learns you’re here.”

 Yennefer’s patience dissolved. “Who would know? Tell me? The bloody wolves? You are hiding in the middle of these mountains. Two years, Geralt, two years. You don’t know! Radovid and Emhyr . . . you should have killed them both! Instead you stew in alcohol and who knows what else.”

 “That’s enough, Yen,” his warning was clear, “it’s too late.”

 Yennefer sensed the lack of conviction in his voice and continued. “No, it’s just the beginning. You want me to go, fine. I shall leave you. But you will find Cirilla, am I clear?” Yennefer could trust no one else to the task, but his current state worried her. “Geralt, we are descending into chaos in the Realms and you–Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf - are needed.”

 “I’m not him anymore, Yen,” Geralt said, “I can’t fix everything.”

 She held her words for fear of the irreparable harm they might inflict. The phone’s shrill ring cut through the silence between them. “Your ride, Geralt,” Yennefer nodded towards the phone, “I’ve arranged everything you might need.”  A few muttered words and a spherical portal appeared in his room as papers and bottles moved with the magical force the portal enacted in the enclosed space.

 He watched as she turned back to look at him, a soft smile crossed her face, “it’s never too late, Geralt, not for me,” Yennefer straightened her jacket and stepped into the portal.

 “Dammit, Yen.  Why now?” Geralt cringed as the phone rang again. Snatching the handset from the cradle, he barked into the mouthpiece. “What!”

 The chipper voice at the other end of the phone did not help Geralt’s mood. “Geralt! Dandelion’s taxi at your service! Yennefer arranged everything, there should be a car arriving in a short while but you must get to the access road, are you . . . able to walk?” 

He grumbled at the veiled implications of possible inebriation. “I’m sober. Who’d you send?” Silence met his question. “Dandelion, it’s a simple question. Who?”

 “Zoltan.”

 “Not the best choice for an escort.” Geralt and Zoltan together often led to overnight accommodations in the local jails. 

 “Not today, I promise. Zoltan is under strict orders to pick you up and get you back here in one piece.”

 “You’re full of shit, you know that right?” Geralt shook his head. “Fine, I’ll be there, hopefully he’ll wait for me.”

 “Of course he will, Geralt!” Dandelion’s phony laugh only annoyed Geralt more, and he slammed the receiver down cutting off the conversation.

 Geralt grabbed his pack, surprised to find it heavy. Flipping the pack open, he found bills, coins, potions and other travel items. _Yennefer. Damn, I messed up._

 Descending the stairs, he took a long look at his home. “This really is a shithole. I should fix it up, restore it or something.”  Kaer Morhen was once a sprawling keep, a school and home for witchers.  Left by his mother Visenna when he was young in the care of the witchers,  Geralt grew up under Vesemir’s tutelage.

 “Time to go,” he chastised himself and hurried down the staircases into the main hall, flipping the cloak around his shoulders, Geralt secured his harness and blades and lifted the hood to obscure his short hair.

 Known for his long white hair, Geralt had chopped it an angry rant several weeks prior and didn’t want to explain each time someone saw his handiwork. Geralt hurried out of the gates and down the mountain path.

 Zoltan Chivay was not the most patient dwarf. “If Geralt weren’t so bleedin’ tall, I’d shove me boot straight up his arse for makin’ me wait. Bleedin’ witchers do whatever they please.” Zoltan took a moment to take in the mountain air and then resumed complaining.

 “Sends me out into the weeds to find Geralt. I know how ta find Geralt, lay out a trail of booze and boobs.”  Zoltan laughed at his joke. “Booze and boobs.”

 Zoltan and Geralt met by fate’s decree, placed together in the same unit during the Third War of the Northern Lands along with several others they formed a bond unbroken by time. Zoltan swore fealty to no seat, no crown only to the men he called friends. Geralt was the one he’d connected with the most, and Zoltan would often sacrifice his own goals to aid Geralt whenever needed.

 The hidden path led Geralt out of the mountains and to the entry gate where he found Dandelion’s car. “Now where did Dandelion get his hands on a Silver Wraith?” Geralt looked over the sleek black car; the Wraith, meant for luxury not deliveries seemed out of place. With a  body several inches longer than the standard limousines seen around the realms, the Wraith boasted a fender configuration shaped like a rolling wave, originating from the rear of the vehicle and culminating in a crest over the wheel base; a striking  black interior from seats to carpet gave it even a more pretentious presence. He whistled in appreciation but Geralt concluded this was not Dandelion’s car. “This is something the Emperor would put on display. Flaunt something so decadent as to be the envy of others.”

 “Yer not far off there, Geralt.” Zoltan pushed Geralt out of the way and opened the door, “Your car, sir?” Zoltan laughed.

 Geralt unbuckled his harness before sliding into the rear seat. He lifted the side bar cover to find it empty. “Not very hospitable, Zoltan.”

 “That’s not my doing, I promise.” Zoltan turned around from the driver’s seat. “What’s your poison, magic or petrol?”

  _Magic or petrol?_ Geralt only knew of a handful of vehicles adapted for use of magic. “This is Yen’s monstrosity, isn’t it?” Zoltan’s soft chuckle answered the question before he replied.

 “Not entirely, my friend, a gift from Emhyr var Arsehole if I understood the tale. The lady accepted it, made a few minor adjustments and here we are. Now, oh great one, there’s a crystal there, give her a little love and we’re on our way.”

 Geralt drew the Aard sign, and the crystal bathed the car’s interior in blue light. Without warning, the engine roared to life and shot forward, slamming Geralt into the back seat.

“Sorry about that, forgot to mention she has quite the kick,” Zoltan said laughing as Geralt righted himself against the back seat.

 “Should’ve taken the portal.” The journey to Novigrad, even at this enhanced speed, would take the better part of a day, Geralt settled in for the long drive as Zoltan talked about the current state of the Continent.

The Continent, made up of the Northern Realms and the Nilfgaardian Empire was a chaotic mix of mobs of varying degrees. Radovid, Redania’s mad king sent mercenaries out daily to take whatever he wanted, including people.  Emhyr var Emreis–he’d used decoys and doubles to prevent any assassination attempts. Vernon Roche ran a mercenary police force; goons for hire quick to beat a criminal to death instead of bringing them before a magistrate. Even if someone managed an arrest, the various factions owned all the magistrates. Sigismund Dijkstra, Novigrad’s crime lord ran the thieves and the assassin’s guilds from the far Isles of Skellige to the mountains in the south, and proved to be the only decent fellow in the bunch next to Roche. 

The Lodge of Sorceresses, a faction of women once feared for the magical strengths had all but disappeared. Most of the Sorceresses scattered to the winds. Some suspected a few might have shifted into other dimensions to avoid servitude. Still others hid in plain sight, advisers for hire.

Zoltan continued to chatter on, but Geralt nodded off.

**Novigrad–Hierarch Square**

Novigrad:  a dark city even in the light of day where the only goal is to remain in the good graces of the men in control. Fallen out of favor for an unknown reason, Dmitar, the sole armor smith in the city planned to travel to Kovir to unload his inventory.  He’d need to find work outside the rule of the city’s factions.

A messenger arrived with a note promising a lucrative commission and Dmitar stared at its message. Turning it over again in his hands he read the implied salvation and hoped his luck had changed.  

_Your work is unmatched in the realms. I wish to discuss a commission._

The underside of the note contained a precise location and time for the meeting in old town. “A strange place to meet, I’ll send someone in my place.” The armorer showed his wife the note, fear of skulking about the city alleyways in the dead of night pushing him to decline the request.

She argued with him through the evening meal and in the end convinced him to meet the patron in person. The only armorer in Novigrad should have far more work with the various factions in the city. Sigismund Dijkstra cancelled all his orders two years prior without explanation. The others followed his lead. Dijkstra, the uncrowned king of the underworld had branded Dmitar’s shop as unfit.

The gunsmiths made the most coin in Novigrad, but Dmitar had provided dimeritium plates for protection, vehicles, and helmets and other attire. He hoped this commission would lead to new business. His meeting was set for half past midnight. Time for evil, his mother’s warnings returned to him, only thieves, beggars and the unblessed walk the night.

Dmitar disliked the back alleys in old town; blind corners, hidden alcoves between the buildings left him wondering why such a strange place would be chosen for a meeting. Through twists and turns, he reached an alcove to find a table with two chairs.  The Novigrad News rested atop it. Dmitar sat and picked up the paper. “1944? The paper is two years old. What is the meaning of this?”

He turned the paper to the front page.

Royal Heir Disappears–Magic Claims Beloved Daughter

His heart quickened. An image of a young woman covered the space below the headline. He remembered her. She asked for repairs to cloak and gloves, but never returned. “I remember you,” he whispered.

The city fell silent. Not even the wind moved as before. “This is magic, I can’t stay.”

“This is magic?” The voice is female, rich and refined. There is no doubt to her sarcasm as she continued. “You left her without her protection. How could you? You knew who she was–did you not?”

_She was young,  Dmitar could tell, but her swords were well-crafted and her coat was fur lined at the hood, she was no beggar. He commented on the unique design of her cloak._

_“It’s from Skellige, a gift. But I wish for it to have an underlayer added, perhaps draconid leather, cured?” The girl knew her materials; he did not stock the cured leather, but could receive it in a day or two._

_“A day or two to receive the materials, another two for safety, would that be too long?” Dmitar would have to use most of his funds unless the woman paid him up front. “An advance would be helpful as well, half now, the rest due upon delivery?”_

_She smiled and nodded. “That would be perfect. The materials are quite expensive, two thousand now and another thousand when I return, would that be sufficient?”_

_“T-t-two thousand? That’s far too much.” He could not take more than would be proper._

_“Nonsense! The entire cloak reinforced, and a pair of gloves. I shall leave you this pair for the pattern.”  She handed him a tattered leather set. “If you would, to the elbow I think. Yes, definitely.” She smiled as she passed the gloves to him._

_To accept her offer would be wrong, the materials wouldn’t cost two thousand and to add another, he couldn’t. “Miss. . .”_

_“Ciri, my name is Ciri.” She said smiling as she ran off. “I expect your very best work!”_

The clacking of heeled shoes on the cobblestone alleyway echoed. An echo? How is there an echo? Dmitar felt the shift in the cool night air as a warm blast filled the small space.  “I must go home, my wife-“

The figure of a woman stepped into the dim light. Cloaked in black velvet a hood obscured her face from view. Her wrath was clear in her words

“How dare you abandon her? Your incompetence killed her. She faced her enemy unprotected because of you!”

Unbalanced in fear and confusion, Dmitar fell backwards as he tried to stand. “No, you must believe me. She did not return! I swear it; the items are still in my shop. I never sold them, never discarded them. They still wait for her, please!” He prayed silently someone would hear them and intervene.

“Fool, you still do not understand. You played your part well; protest all you like. You and your conspirators will pay. You are the first. I assure you–I have not forgotten.”

He tried to search his memory. “I met her only once, I didn’t know who she was. She was kind to me, offered too much for the work, I finished it early. I would never have taken advantage of her kindness. Why won’t you believe me?”

The woman stepped closer. “You took the one thing that kept the balance in this world. You set the path in motion.”

Another blast of warm air filled the space. It reminded him of spring at his family farm, the lilacs his mother loved so well.

A hand emerged from beneath the cloak. The hand and fingers seemed too delicate, too perfect. He willed himself to rush towards her and escape, but could not.  Dmitar’s eyes widened as a violet ball of light formed in her outstretched hand. “You are Dmitar Yesenia. You have been judged. Death awaits.”

Dmitar fell to his knees and prayed as the violet flames surrounded him.

_________________

Shaken from his sleep, Geralt groaned. “Unless you plan to buy me a drink, or give me a kiss, fuck off.”

Vernon Roche backed out of the Wraith and into the street, “Sorry Geralt. I’m on duty and frankly, you’re just not my type. Get up you lazy bastard, I’ve got a problem.”

Geralt opened one eye and looked into the grinning visage of his old friend. Roche ran the mercenary forces in the major cities as guards and police. His appearance now meant trouble. Geralt waited to see what he needed this time around. “You know Roche, there are creams and ointments that can help. Lay off the prostitutes, it’s the best idea for someone in your line of work.”

Roche didn’t have time for Geralt’s usual quips and humor. “You should know. I’m not trying to be funny, Geralt, this is serious. There’s a body in a nearby alleyway. Dijkstra lent me the extra men to close off the area.

Geralt pulled to full attention. “You’re helping each other? This isn’t good.” He climbed out of the car and settled on his feet.

“The problem is this involves you too. An armorer from the Square is dead. Magic killed him. I need your help.”

“Get in line, Roche.” Geralt could not take sides  in another turf war or petty fight between factions. He needed to find Ciri. “I have a much bigger problem.”

Roche handed over a lady’s glove. It was silk, black silk. Out of habit, he inhaled the perfumed scent. “This is Yen’s glove. Is she all right? Where is she?”  Geralt’s senses engaged as his concern for Yen took control.

“I was afraid you would say that, Geralt.”  Roche pulled him towards the door of Dandelion’s club.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vernon Roche believes Yennefer guilty of murder; past transgressions forever tainting his view of the sorceress. Geralt must bargain for time to prove Yen's innocence while stepping deeper into the mysterious death of a craftsman.

 

_Yennefer attempted to kill me when we met. When she mistook me for the guard, I should have walked away and never looked back._

_I’d stared at my death more than once, but I never feared my end until I met her. It was her eyes. Those violet eyes grabbed hold of whatever remained of my human soul and carried me into her darkness. She hired me to break her out of her prison cell. She was not my objective but in my wish to keep her safe; I let another man die._

Geralt’s thoughts returned to the present as he tried to make sense of the information he learned. _Roche was wrong–Yen didn’t murder men–she sent me instead._

Vernon Roche studied Geralt as he sat across from him. He knew of the witcher’s gray existence. A contract is a contract, be it saving or taking a life, and Roche never judged. They all tread close to villainy, but Roche, Geralt, Dijkstra and Zoltan kept each other from straying too far. This was different; Roche could prove Geralt wasn’t in Novigrad. But if there was truth to the glove’s owner and the damning nature of the other clues, he would have to use caution.

Roche put on a false smile and by the raised brow staring back at him, Geralt knew it was for his benefit. “It’s not Yen. Let me take a look at the scene and the body.” Geralt had to find Ciri, but nothing that happened around him was ever coincidence, Roche’s presence confirmed it. “Trust me, the glove? It’s not what it looks like, let me help.”

“Geralt, what if it is?” Roche wasn’t challenging him, Geralt understood the problem. A rogue sorceress loose in the Northern Realms would attract unwanted attention.

“This is about Ciri; it has to be. Yen finds me to look into rumors of Ciri’s return. Where is Ciri? She’d seek me out or Yen first. That’s the problem. Your corpse has something to do with Ciri. Take me to the scene. You wouldn’t be here waiting for me to welcome me back to the city.” Pushing away from the table Geralt moved towards the exit. When Roche didn’t follow, he turned. “Look, I’ll protect you if you’re afraid, but the longer we wait, the trail will go cold.”

“Unofficially, I accept your offer to help. Officially, you’re here sleeping off another night of drink are we clear?” Roche walked past him and reached the door first.

 _Someone wants Yen to appear guilty, not Roche, but he’s under pressure_ , Geralt thought. “Fine. Let’s go while I can still stand.” Geralt could see Dandelion heading towards them.

“Geralt, wait! I’m supposed to take you to-"  Dandelion couldn’t finish as Geralt and Roche slipped out into the night.

Roche glanced sideways at Geralt several times as they walked through the streets. When Geralt turned to look at him Roche smiled.

“Cut the crap, Roche. You’ve smiled at me more in the last hour than in the entire time I’ve known you. Now, either you’re a changeling in which case - I’d suggest running - or you’re trying to distract me.”

“I’m not a changeling, but you’re an ass. Two fucking years and you leave us with this. . . mess. You’re on a short leash in my city, Wolf. So much as look at a fisstech pusher and-"

“I get it, you’re to hold my hand and keep me clean, is that it?” Geralt didn’t need reminders, nothing worked to dull the pain of losing Ciri.

“I’ve had enough of this.” Roche turned on Geralt and advanced backing him up against a wall. His jaw clenched, and he huffed several times before continuing. “Never assume that I or any of us fail to feel Cirilla’s loss. You insult those of us who have stood in your shadow and watched you keep the people safe.”

He'd expected to face those he abandoned when Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen alone. 

 “When you disappeared, did you think the madness stopped?” Backing away, he took several steps to his right and then returned to Geralt pointing his finger as he spoke. “When the people needed the White Wolf where was he?”

Geralt held his anger, despite the overwhelming desire to hit Roche, truth coated his words.

 “Answer me, _Wolf_.” Roche sneered and pushed Geralt’s chest. “The great witcher, reduced to nothing but a common junkie.”

 “Careful, _Vernon_.” Geralt stepped forward. “I don’t need you. Remember that.”

 Several of the city guard converged as the argument continued. Roche held up his hand towards the guards. This was none of their concern.

 He straightened his uniform and waved the guards away. “I think you do, Geralt. I am all that stands between Yennefer and a cell.”

 Geralt could feel the eyes of the guards track his every move.

 “Fine. Then I will help for Yen’s sake - not for your crusade.” Geralt walked on ahead, leaving Roche behind.

 The city guard answered to Roche, but a small group of enforcers policed the back alleys and darkened areas of the city led by Ves, Roche’s right hand. Her distrust and hatred of non-humans well known and while she tolerated Geralt and his fellow witchers, if given a choice she would not hesitate to take any of them down. Geralt feared Ves might work against him. “I’ll find your murderer but my way and you keep your dogs and Ves out of my investigation.”

 Roche nodded. “We’ll walk, less conspicuous for now.” Roche led the way. “Tell me about Ciri.”

 This was not small talk to pass the time. The four men swore to watch over Geralt’s ward. She was the Emperor’s daughter, that much was true  - but she was a princess in name only. Trained by Vesemir and Geralt in the ways of the witchers, she lived at Kaer Morhen for a time. Geralt and Yen sent her to Ellander to learn to control her magic and the nature of life from Nenneke at the Temple of Melitele until Yennefer took control of Ciri’s lessons. Protection kept Ciri’s abilities hidden to all but a select few; Geralt, Vesemir, Yennefer and those at the temple.

  _Until you sent her after Frost . . .alone._ White Frost, no one  knew what he looked like or if he or Hunt led their forces, but Ciri insisted she was ready and only she could defeat him. “Fucking prophecies, Roche. That’s what happened to her. Some strung out crone spews lines of poetry in a fisstech induced state and it’s the apocalypse and only Ciri can save the world.” Gerald didn’t believe in prophecy. “Time of the wolf . . .my ass,” he spat.

 Roche glanced sideways at Geralt, “So, White Wolf, tell me why you’re in Novigrad, the truth.” Using Geralt’s hated nickname was a way to goad the witcher into anger.

 “You know the whole story. Yen came to see me, showed me the letter and the bracelet. She arranged for Dandelion to bring me here.” Geralt offered.

 Roche hummed in agreement. “I understand, but why here? Why not take you to Skellige? What about Velen? Why are you in Novigrad?”

 “Fuck, Roche if I didn’t know you better I’d think you were calling me a liar. But, _old friend_ , you wouldn’t do that would you?” Geralt fought to keep all accusation from his voice, but this was the same tired story. His friends thought Yennefer caused all Geralt’s problems. “If I can prove this wasn’t Yen, will you let this go?”

 Roche ignored the question as they approached the alley. “Through there, Wolf. I’ll follow in a moment after I clear Ves’ men." Roche pointed between two buildings. Two men guarded the entry. “Let him through!” Roche called out and waited for the nod from both. “Go ahead, I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

 Taking in the surrounding area, Geralt noted the buildings provided cover for whatever took place in the small alleyway before him. As he neared the buildings, the overwhelming stench of lilacs assaulted his senses. “Smells like an entire barrel of perfume exploded here.” He wrinkled his nose and tried to look beyond the overwhelming odors. Charred remains near the small table captured his attention. “Need to inspect everything.”

The witcher crouched and ran his finger across the brick wall. “This smell isn’t perfume, its pure oil, sprayed or splashed on everything. It’s missing components, the gooseberries for one –it’s not Yen’s scent.” Geralt sniffed the bricks, “perfume is sprayed on the bricks here, the scent is cloying and wrong. To almost anyone else, it’d be Yen's scent.”  _But not me_ , he reflected, _I should have kept quiet about the damned glove. I’m just feeding Roche’s suspicions._

Geralt’s medallion hummed against him, “There’s a strong magic here.” He stepped around the body and examined the items on the small table. A folded note and a newspaper somehow survived the fire. Picking up the Novigrad News, he blanched as Ciri’s smiling face taunting him from the front page. A deep breath settled him and he skimmed the paper. “This is two years old and was three weeks after Ciri disappeared.” Geralt folded the newspaper and placed it back on the table.

The note was similar to the one Yennefer received. “Milled paper. The flecks and small pieces of chaff embedded in the page show this was handmade not pressed. Charcoal used again to write the message.”   On one side, the invitation and the other held the location and time. Placing the note atop the paper, he exhaled pushing away the smells and images of what he’d seen. He needed to look deeper.

Witchers possessed heightened senses, even the smallest trace of a scent or a fragment could be a clue for the witcher to follow. The scent of lilacs overpowered the small space, but Geralt could see the scent cloud. He focused his attention to the ground and discovered a footprint and pieces of coarse earth. He knelt near the print and found a small bit of earth inside it. “A defect in the shoe maybe, but the print is small, a woman or a child. Not Yen’s.” He pulled a small linen piece from his pack and took a pinch of the foreign earth.

Roche entered the alcove to find Geralt on his knees. “What did you find?”

Geralt gestured towards the table. “A note, the same paper and charcoal writing as another, a newspaper–dated several weeks after Ciri’s disappearance.” Roche nodded. “Someone covered the whole area in lilac oil, not perfume. That glove you showed me carried the same scent.” He gestured to the area in front of him. “There’s a faint print here, small - either a female or a child.”

Roche had missed the print. He had needed Geralt’s skills to find the clue.

Geralt continued his summation. “There’s coarse dirt inside the print, most of the unpaved areas in Novigrad are pulverized, this could be farmland or something imported in for gardens.” Moving towards the body he met Roche’s eyes. “Here’s the weird shit. Only the body burned; this oil sprayed on every surface should have set the whole area ablaze. It didn’t. The papers on the table aren’t charred in the slightest.”

“You wouldn’t have a name or an address, would you?” Roche asked, arching a brow.

Rolling his eyes, Geralt shifted around to the body of the dead man. “Is it all right if I move him?”  There was something off about the body. He’d seen this rigor before, but couldn’t find the information readily in his memory. “I need Shani. Can you find her?” A skilled physician, Shani could confirm Geralt’s suspicions.

A whistle escaped Roche’s lips. “That’s a tall order, Wolf. She’s in Oxenfurt at the University and I believe in the employ of the Mad Bastard himself. You want to bring her in on this? What if word gets to Radovid?” A quiet grumble from Geralt was enough for Roche to reconsider. “Dijkstra can find her faster, I’ll make a call.”

Roche turned to leave, but Geralt grabbed him arm, “I need to talk to the widow. There’s something missing here. The note comments on the man’s skill, a ploy to meet over a commission. Why would he meet someone after dark in an alley? No one is that stupid. There had to be other factors here. Why the paper? What was significant about Ciri and this man?”

 “All right, Geralt, you’ve made your point; we’ll go in the morning,” Roche didn’t want to intrude on the woman any more than they already had.

 Geralt followed Roche out into the street. “It’s not Yennefer. This was staged, tell me you see it.”

 “Yes, fine, I agree something is wrong here. Yennefer is never this . . .neat.”

 Roche was right, whenever Yen involved herself in a situation, it degenerated into a large affair.

  _The explosion lifted them in their covered refuge, moments after the commotion, Geralt wondered if he could venture out onto the battlefield. The tank had been targeting their position for the better part of an hour and Dijkstra wasn’t getting any radio response from headquarters. When the noise dissipated, Geralt and Zoltan agreed to take the chance and investigate the immediate area._

_Geralt peered around the barrier into  the smiling face of Yennefer of Vengerberg. Her raven locks floated around her face, embers fell in the air and swirled around her legs. “You can come out now boys, the path is clear!” Her melodic voice drew him out and carried him towards her. Her leather jacket slung over her shoulder revealed the uniform of Nilfgaardian design. “Hello, Geralt. I’m afraid I made a bit of a mess, but as long as you’re unharmed.” She touched the side of his face in a gentle caress._

_Zoltan pushed his way through the two. “Pfft! A bit of a mess, she says”, Zoltan guffawed taking in the large crater where the tank sat not moments before, “more than that– scared the balls off me, but I thank ye just the same, dear lady.”_

_Geralt shook his head. In awe of her tenacity, he led her aside, “what are you doing here, Yen?”_

_She stared at him, defiance blazed in her violet eyes. “I heard the call, I was waiting to speak to the general. When Dijkstra mentioned your predicament . . . I couldn’t sit and do nothing.”_

_“So you just made a portal. . .” Geralt grinned._

_She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yes, Geralt I used a portal and arrived in time to destroy the tank pinning you down. What is so difficult for you to comprehend?”_

_Roche and Dijkstra joined them both taking in the surrounding destruction. She’d somehow upended the tank, they could see it had landed upside down and burnt. The ground around them for 200 yards appeared scorched and smoldering in many areas. “How. . .” Roche frowned at her uniform. “You’ve joined the Emperor then?” He gestured towards her attire. “If not, I object to your appearance here and question your motives.”_

_Zoltan growled. “Who gives a bleedin' fuck if she’s stark fucking bare!” Zoltan realized his mistake and cringed, turning to Yennefer with a quick nod of his head, “apologies, my manners,” he wheeled around to face Roche again. “Shut that mouth and thank the nice sorceress who just saved yer worthless arse!”  He walked away muttering additional curses._

_Pulling his hand flush against his chest Roche bowed, “I apologize, your help deserves my thanks not my suspicions.”_

Roche and Geralt returned to Dandelion’s club discussing Yennefer’s unexpected appearance that night. “You’re right,” Roche agreed, “if this had been Yennefer she would have made a spectacle of the man’s transgressions whatever they may be, not secret him out of view.”

“Thank you.” Geralt still had to talk to the widow; he hoped she might know the connection to Ciri and why her husband ventured out so late at night.

The main floor packed to capacity awaited the evening entertainment. Dandelion waved Geralt and Roche to his table near the front. “Not performing tonight?” Geralt didn’t appreciate Dandelion’s musical tastes, he talked more than he sang and neither sat well upon the ear. Roche excused himself and left the others to their plans.

Dandelion gestured to the bar. “I found the most interesting label, Geralt. I thought you might enjoy it as a change of pace.” A server delivered two bottles of wine and three glasses.

“Three glasses? Expecting someone?” Geralt wanted no more surprises, a bed, a bottle and time to sleep before resuming his investigation tomorrow comprised the whole of his list for the evening.

“You’ll see soon enough.” Dandelion smiled.

“I hate when you do that. Don’t surprise me, I _hate_ surprises.” Geralt grabbed one bottle and coughed as he read the label.

_Corvo Bianco Sepremento_

The unmistakable crest of Geralt of Rivia, a blue castle façade on black over the red and white diamond pattern below stared back at him. _Geralt of Rivia. Just what I need, more fucking titles to follow me_. Meve Queen of Rivia, knighted him for his valor at the Battle on the Yaruga River during the second war of the Northern Realms.

“Fascinating isn’t it? Toussaint, small vineyard. I came across it thanks to a mutual acquaintance.” Dandelion, pleased with his find smirked and continued. “Imagine my complete surprise to find your name attached to this little vineyard. “The major domo was only too happy to tell me of the owner, a mysterious yet generous witcher by the name of Geralt.”

“Cut the crap, Dandelion, the Duchess no doubt gave you the story. I thought she despised you with the–what were her words . . .oh right, _fire from the depth of her soul_. I believe she wished you to burn until the last remnants of life disappeared from existence.”

Dandelion dismissed Geralt’s words. “Old news, we’ve . . . reconciled–in a manner of speaking.”

 “You mean she let you leave Toussaint intact and with your neck and head still attached.” Anna Henrietta despised Dandelion for one discretion or another, but that was years ago and as with most of the women in Dandelion's life, they often forgave him-for a while.  

 The fake laughter from his friend confirmed Geralt’s suspicions. Geralt missed Toussaint, quiet, for the most part, the region well known for its wines. He accepted the glass and explained, “Corvo Bianco was payment for a contract.”

 Swallowing his wine, Dandelion slammed the glass down on the table. He realized the attention to their discussion and dropped his voice low. “Anna Henrietta gave you a _vineyard_?”

 The incredulous tone from Dandelion only underlined Geralt’s feelings about the vineyard. “It was a large contract. I tried to decline, but you know the Duchess better than I ever could.”

 Dandelion nodded and leaned in closer. “There’s someone who needs to talk with you about Ciri and Yen.” Sincerity enveloped Dandelion’s confession, he was not lying. “You must wait until after closing, I’m afraid. Your room is the last one on the right. I’ll knock and then you can come back down.” A key slid across the table toward Geralt.

 “All right, see you later,” key in hand, he excused himself and wound his way through the tables to the private stairwell where Zoltan stood guard. Upon seeing Geralt he moved aside to let Geralt pass. “Sleep tight, witcher, don’t let the fleas bite.” Zoltan’s hearty laugh followed Geralt up the stairs.

 Unlocking his room, he found it much as he and Yen had left it; a few scattered trinkets, books and even the roses he’d given her before he went after Imlerith, one of Hunt’s lieutenants.

  _“Flowers? Geralt, if this is your attempt to be romantic, I won’t have it.” She turned from him to face the window. “Don’t do this alone . . .please.” She turned back to meet his eyes. “Allow me to-"_

_Geralt cut her off. “No. Yen, trust me. I’ll be fine.”_

_“Well I wish I had your confidence, Geralt.” For a moment she rubbed her arms with her hands. She needed comfort, but it wasn’t his to give._

_“Maybe you’re right and this is too much to ask of you, Yen. I can’t stop what I am to put your mind at ease. Would you really want me to let Imlerith go? What of Hunt? Should I forget everything he did to me? Everything he did to you?”_

_“No, I don’t want you to let him go. I wish you would allow me to help.” Her voice soft, she wanted him to survive. She feared losing all they’d worked for, all the things they tried to make right would be meaningless if Geralt didn’t return. Her earlier weariness forgotten she turned on her heel and crossed her arms. “Try not to get killed. I shall be quite cross if you do. Remember I can bring you back but I promise you, it will be most unpleasant.”_

_He stepped closer to her. “I love you, too Yen.”_

_“Bastard.” She pounded a fist on his chest. He clasped her hand in his and brushed his lips against her palm. “Don’t do that. I’m angry with you, Geralt. Why must you be so stubborn?”_

_Leaning his head to the right, he resting his cheek against hers. “Geralt, that will not work.”  He hummed once and inhaled long and deep tracing the tip of his nose to her ear._

_Geralt felt her breath catch and whispered, “are you sure about that, Yen?”_

He missed her, but being apart was better for both of them. Humans could have the fairy tale and the perfect future. Geralt and Yennefer would never find that ending. He hoped that she would have moved on, found another path. Geralt could not deny she still thrilled him. Yennefer was more than his love. She lifted him out of the darkest parts of himself and kept his heart beating even when he wished it would not.

He rested while waiting for Dandelion’s surprise guest. His thoughts drifted back to Yennefer and Ciri and in those happier memories, he slept.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dandelion's surprise guest reveals more to Ciri's disappearance. Eager to continue his investigation into the smith's death, Geralt finds another lost companion waiting for him.

_“Geralt, I can go alone. When will you have faith in me?” Ciri paced throwing up her arms as she spoke._

_Leaning against the wall, his eyes showed him the ten-year-old Ciri making faces through her lessons with Vesemir; hiding around corners for him to find her. He recalled the tears she cried when Yen took her to Ellander to learn to control her magic. Ciri pleaded with Geralt back then too. She wanted to stay with him and be a witcher. She could never be like him, it wasn’t possible and in some small way–that made him happy._

  _“You’re not even listening to me!” A bottle smashed against the wall near him bringing his awareness back to the present. “You heard what the others said; only I can face him!”_

_He kicked the wall with his boot staring through her. “A half translated prophecy from a crumbling parchment and you’re the chosen one?” Geralt believed he should be the one to find Frost. Not Ciri. He’d worked too hard to get her this far and was not prepared to lose her. “Sorry, I can’t let you go. If anyone is taking this one-way trip–it’s me.”_

_Geralt witnessed a flash of blue light and in that moment Ciri teleported to the door. “I am tired of not living up to your standards, Geralt.” She sighed. “Very well, I will leave you alone, could I have my pack please, it’s just there - on the table.”_

_Nodding he turned from her towards the table. “Ciri, Frost wants you for himself.“ He felt the impact from a heavy object against his head. Geralt’s eyes unfocused and blurred before he collapsed to the floor._

The memory of Ciri’s last night haunted him. Some part of him changed that night. Geralt never realized how deep his feelings ran.  A knock on his door pulled his attention to the clock on the wall. “Midnight? Did I sleep through the day?” Geralt shook his head. “In a minute,” he called out. Geralt dug through his pack to find the package and bracelet Yennefer gave him and placed it on the bed. Another knock, more urgent than the last forced him to move towards the door. “I said, in a minute!”

  Geralt heard a child’s laugh through the door. Grabbing the door he slipped as the handle broke apart in his grip. “Johnny.” Geralt wondered if more tricks awaited him. “Looks like my little shadow found a new home.” Johnny was a godling, not human - a hard working woodland creature who loved to help with small tasks.  Johnny had worked for Geralt and Vesemir as a messenger, delivery boy and all around kid Friday for quite some time. The godling could work around almost any situation no matter the danger; he had no fear of creatures- and only a mild fear of humans. There was one small problem.

  “The little shit is at it again.” Johnny loved to prank Geralt. Fake money, phony blades, cryptic notes that meant nothing, if it made Johnny laugh, he did it.

  “Johnny, open the damn door.” Geralt’s anger wasn’t real, Johnny above all else, wanted to be helpful. The way to anger him was to treat him as a child. Johnny was older than Geralt, knew many things, many creatures and many secrets. A perfect go between for monster and witcher.

  Tools clunked and clattered to the floor. “Whoops!”

  “Johnny, stop messing around.” Geralt wondered if the time on the clock was wrong as well thanks to his friend. The diminutive laugh continued through the tinkering sounds. Geralt decided a new tactic might help speed Johnny’s progress. “Got a job for you, but we can’t talk if I’m stuck in here.” The clatter of tools to the floor proved Geralt had Johnny’s attention.

The door opened to reveal a young boy with yellow eyes and blue-grey skin. He grinned and stuck out his hand.

“Would you kindly, noble witcher?” Geralt handed over the broken door handle. “I swear it was naught but a simple joke, noble sir!” Johnny replaced the broken handle with quiet efficiency and then turned to show off his handiwork, “there you are, all fixed. How might I be of service?”

“Nice work, Johnny. Good joke, too.” Geralt gave the godling a quick wink. “I need to meet with Dandelion.”

“Thank you!” Johnny grinned and pointed towards the stairs, “you’re expected down in the bar. I came to fetch you, but I wanted a bit of fun.”

Geralt grabbed the package from the bed and the small pinch of earth from the alley. “Tell me what you smell, Johnny.”  The godling accepted the folded linen containing the dirt from the crime scene.

“Ugh, it stinks. The earth is not from these lands. There’s magic there, but no place I’d want to be.” Johnny shook his head to clear whatever thoughts rattled in his head. Geralt would ask more another time and handed the package to him.

“Did this come from the same earth?” Geralt didn’t want to say much in hopes Johnny would reveal more.

His face fell as he opened the package. “Oh. This was hers. You search for your daughter again?” Geralt didn’t bother to correct Johnny. “There’s earth here too, same as before but there’s more.”

Geralt leaned closer hoping for an answer to Ciri’s location.  “More? What else, Johnny?”

The godling sniffed the bracelet, his furrowed brow and pursed lips showed his focus. “A place in between not meant for the flesh, if she is there–I will pray for the Mother to guide her back.”

“The Mother? Johnny, where is she? Can you show me?” Geralt clasped Johnny’s shoulder.

Sad eyes and a downturned mouth, spoke more than words. Johnny shook his head. “If her trinket came back, then someone has already brought her out or tried. Wherever this earth rests, so does your child.” Johnny sighed, “My deepest sorrows for your daughter, witcher.” Johnny returned the package with such reverence; Geralt stumbled back towards the bed. 

Placing the bracelet into Geralt’s hands, Johnny offered to help. “Should I find the resting place?”

Shaking his head, Geralt inhaled, “no, Johnny and thank you. Stick around; I’ll need your help. If you hear any whispers about her-"

Johnny’s face illuminated, and he grinned. “Yes, noble witcher, I will. Keep my ears to the trees and listen to winds I will.”

“Thanks, Johnny.” Geralt stuck the bracelet in his pocket and took his time descending the stairs. Lost in thought, a soft voice calling to him from the bar and the hum of his medallion told him the night had not ended.

He saw her before she spoke again or rather his eyes focused on the dress she wore. Emerald green offset her blaze of red hair piled in a loose bun atop her head. Her eyes deep blue or crystal green–they seemed to change each time he saw her. Drawn to the strange cut of her gown, her breasts floated unaided even with the noticeable gap of fabric in the center of the gown.  “Nice dress, Triss–but either it’s on backwards or I’d say it’s excessive for Novigrad. Not that the view isn’t interesting.”

“How. . .flattering, Geralt.”  Triss Merigold, sorceress and friend to Yennefer and Ciri sauntered towards him. She met his eyes and her features softened.  “I’ve worried about you.” She reached out and stroked the top of his hand. “You could have come to me–for help.”  

Geralt knew of Triss’ feelings towards him. She’d admitted to him as much several years prior. He ignored her comment and moved his hand away. “I take it you’re my mystery guest?”

Nodding, she picked up two glasses and leaned over the table. “Should we grab the bottle and talk somewhere more . . .private?”

A coughing spell erupted from Zoltan’s position near the front door. The door bolt slid into place, the dwarf cleared his throat a few more times.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes or sigh. “Triss, it’s good to see you, but you and me,” he pointed to her and back, “won’t happen. Change your clothes, would you? I’d like to hear what you have to say not stare at your breasts and pretend I care.”

A thin laugh laced in hurt escaped her. “Fine. They’re just breasts, Geralt, but if it will make you more comfortable, give me a few minutes.”

Zoltan wandered over from the front door. “Thanks ta ye, Geralt. Human witches are not my poison of choice, but staring at those for half the night–mind you that _was_ harsh.” The dwarf slapped his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, “she’s all locked up, my friend.”

Geralt followed Zoltan’s weary strides to the stairs. “See you later, Zoltan.”

Dandelion’s club in Novigrad had flourished after the war, once a thirty-seat watering hole, the expansions into neighboring buildings gave him numerous rooms for friends or guests, a bar big enough for a hundred or more in a night. It was good to see Dandelion stop wandering from city to city picking up women by the handfuls everywhere he went. Geralt was sure Dandelion still had a healthy pick of women anywhere he might travel, but this seemed a good place for him. He’d added a club in Oxenfurt, smaller but no less popular.

Triss could prove to be a problem. He did not intend to accept her advances, ever. Beautiful and intelligent, she was one of the few in the Lodge he could trust. Both women in his life had told him one way or another. Triss was off limits.

_The conversation died without warning. Geralt’s eyes followed Yennefer; her deliberate climb up the stairs without a single word to him left him wondering what had happened. Ciri, mouth agape stared and shook her head._

_Geralt shrugged and dropped his voice low, “did I miss something?”_

_Pushing away from the table, she turned to face him eyes wide and brows raised. “Did you really ask me that? Geralt, you sat there for the last hour talking about the . . .virtues of the other women in the Lodge and compared them to Yen. How could you?”_

_Geralt didn’t understand. “Yen asked me about my opinion of the others. I answered.”_

_“She didn’t want you to answer! Geralt, think about it.” Ciri pulled a chair next to him and took his hands in hers. “I can’t believe I’m discussing this with you. Please, you both mean the world to me. You have to stop, Geralt. The Lodge is not your own personal . . .brothel.”_

_He frowned at her admonishment. “Ciri. I’m not talking about this.”_

_“You sat and talked about Kiera and Fringilla and you continued knowing how vicious Fringilla is towards Yen.” Her head dropped, but she continued, “it undermines Yen, your actions give the others reason to doubt her and to assume that I need supervision away from the both of you and into their care.”_

_The Lodge claimed to put them all on equal footing. Fringilla, crazed and often violent had attacked Yennefer during an argument and attempted to blind her. She’d flaunted her affair with Geralt during the attack._

_They’d been talking about so many things throughout the meal, laughing and enjoying their evening, he didn’t see Yennefer’s discomfort or the growing anger, but understood Ciri’s words. “I’d better apologize.”_

_“It’s a start,” Ciri said, not meeting his eyes. “If I may ask one personal favor.”_

_“Anything, Ciri-name it.” Geralt meant every word._

_“I know about Triss. Her. . .feelings. Promise me to let her be. She is as close to a sister as I can have and if anything were to end,” she swallowed, “unfavorably, I fear the friendship we share would be unbearable for her. It’s unfair of me to ask, you are free to do as you please, but as a personal favor?”_

 Triss returned wearing simple clothing. “I hope you don’t mind my company.”

“Triss, I'm sorry for what I said. Dandelion mentioned you had information about Ciri and Yen?”

The quiet desperation in Geralt’s voice changed her tone. “I need your help, Geralt. I know where Yen is in the north, and for now, I think she’s safe.”

He shifted in his chair, the urge to move growing as thoughts of Yen filled his head. “Where is Ciri?”

“That’s the problem, Geralt. Look at this.” Triss stood and moved behind the bar, she retrieved a package and returned. The package, in outward appearance looked similar to the one Yennefer received. Wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with simple string, Geralt asked Triss without words if he could look at it.

Taking it in his hands, his medallion hummed as it had with the bracelet. “Damn strange. Medallion’s humming again–but why?” Geralt pulled the bracelet from his pocket. “Yen received this in the same paper and string.”

The conversation changed. Triss did not sit down and appeared to be deep in thought. After a few moments, she spoke again. “Geralt, if Ciri were. . .in trouble. Could she teleport an object to others?”

The full extent of Ciri's gifts and its limitations remained unknown. “Yen or maybe even Philippa might know more, I wouldn’t think so. If anything, she could have teleported away, right?” Philippa proclaimed to have the most knowledge about Ciri’s gifts; he’d have to find her for help.

Considering Geralt's words, Triss responded. “It is possible, but then why send the bracelet and these?” She opened the package to reveal small broken vials. “I’d given her a small side pack to hold a few healing potions and herbs. Only the vials were in the package, the pack must still be with her.”

Geralt shared the fate of the armorer and the clues left behind. Triss agreed with his conclusions. “Yennefer would do anything to protect Ciri, but not stage a scene. She’d make an example and a messy one at that.”

They talked late into the night and despite Triss’ offers to help Geralt with his investigation; he asked her to find Philippa and get a message to Yennefer. He wanted Yen in Novigrad as soon as possible.

The following morning, Geralt waited for Dandelion and Zoltan to wake. He’d meet Roche first and talk to the armorer’s widow. If Triss could get a line on where Philippa might have settled that would be his second task.  He imagined, like Yennefer, Philippa hid in plain sight. Yennefer, a guest of Cerys en Craite in Skellige, enjoyed the family’s protection, much to the chagrin of others.

Philippa Eilhart, considered the unspoken leader of the Lodge and a polymorph often took the shape of an owl when in search of secrets. Once a captive of Radovid, if Philippa wanted to inflict harm and direct her efforts, setting up shop in Novigrad made the most sense, Dijkstra would no doubt cater to her mad whims in exchange for her magical influence and access to information.

Geralt could see the path's potential to branch out so far from his original plan that once again, a single task would continue to multiply until Geralt would be stuck with a list of twenty or more tasks needed to reach his goal.

Daylight wasted  waiting for Zoltan to wake. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled twice; the sound shrill and sharp an old signal from their days in the war.

An engine roared to life somewhere towards the back of the club. Geralt pulled aside the back curtain and followed the steps down into the service area. “Couldn’t be,” he said. Geralt whistled again, and the engine revved again, louder than before. “She didn’t.” Geralt couldn’t believe it. Yennefer had Roach brought to Novigrad. “Roach!”

At his name, the engine revved again, leading Geralt through back corridors to a storage area. There, all alone in an empty garage, Roach waited for him. Roach was a one of a kind Vincent motorcycle. “Easy Roach,” he walked around checking every angle. “How did you get here . . . had to be Yen.”

A nasty ghoul infestation at one of the Vincent warehouse locations near White Orchard brought Geralt and Roach together. Geralt cleared out the warehouse damaging none of the inventories within. A grateful Philip Vincent offered Geralt a unique opportunity. A prototype, dubbed the Black Shadow, proved too much for human riders. Most test drivers remarked that attempting the ride the Shadow at top speed for any length of time invited death as a passenger. Its speed and need for a strong rider had tabled the plans. Touched by magic, the Black Shadow seemed to do whatever it wanted. Vincent’s offer proved simple, if Geralt could control the Shadow, it was his. Clearing out the warehouse proved simple. Taming the Shadow–a test of wills. 

_Refusing to dust himself off, Geralt returned to the motorcycle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were possessed.” He said, surprised to see the bike upright. “So, dump me on the ground and you don’t fall over, I see your game.”_

_He’d seen a few possessed machines here and there, and even cleaned a few of their spirits, but he wanted to see what the bike could do. Geralt approached and seated himself, the reach from the seat forward to the handgrips fit Geralt’s frame well. Calm and reserved, he waited. “All right, let’s ride.”_

_The engine revved on its own, daring the rider to back down. Instead of trying to control the bike, Geralt changed tactics. “You decide, I’m just along for the ride. I wonder if you can go as fast as they say.” Before he could finish, the Shadow shot forward out onto the dirt road. “Come on, I’ve seen roaches scatter faster than this!”_

_Geralt could feel something shift around the Shadow. “Maybe you are carrying a little something extra, hmmm?” Tightening his grip, the bike sped faster and faster into the night. “Faster!” Geralt shouted. He marveled at how the Shadow took the road and turned with little guidance from him. The headlamp cut through the darkness as machine and rider bonded into one. When they returned to the warehouse, Vincent drew up the papers and congratulated them both. Geralt had found his ride.  “Roach. That’s what I’ll call you.”_

Much like the Silver Wraith, Roach could run on petrol or magic, but Geralt knew Roach preferred magic. “We’ll ride later, you sit tight.” 

As much as he would’ve preferred to take to the open roads, Ciri needed him. Geralt slipped out a side door and towards the square. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt seeks the armorer's widow, but a note from a hidden friend warns of a plot. As the witcher's concerns grow, he must decide who among his friends can be trusted.

 

Even in the light of the morning sun, Novigrad appeared gray, devoid of warmth. The city clung to its past; storefronts still hung shingle signs on hooks with grime covered pictures depicting their wares, the lamplighters moved to douse the oil lanterns lining the streets where electric lights could not be strung. Where the road had worn away, glimpses of the past revealed themselves in uneven stone paths peeking through.

Geralt preferred the mountains, he knew Kaer Morhen was falling apart, but it still _breathed_. Novigrad, Velen, White Orchard, all the cities in the Northern Realms resigned themselves to their fate and slept a deep sleep.

The armorer lived opposite the square in a modest garden level apartment. Geralt hoped to learn more about the man from his widow. Halfway to the square, Triss’ offer of help weighed on his mind. Geralt wasn’t always the best at heartfelt discussions; Triss, on the other hand, could put others at ease, but he had to rely on her to find Philippa and Yen.

As he entered Heirarch Square, the emptiness of the vendor stalls and lack of patrons struck him as odd until a man and a woman deep in conversation caught his eye.  Roche and Ves. Ves saw him first.  The sour look on Ves’ face told him she didn’t approve of his presence.  

“Roche, nice of you to find me before heading out this morning.” Geralt kept a straight face as looked on Ves. Her sneer and narrowed eyes intended to seem menacing, but her diminutive form and young face made it look as though she were in pain. “Ves, don’t you look _lovely_ today.” Geralt did not miss the sly smile on Roche’s face.

Turning to Roche, she ignored Geralt’s presence. “We don’t need a witcher. My men can find the witch, _without_ his help.”

A young boy ran into the square and stopped in front of Geralt. “Are you Geralt of Rivia?” Ves stopped complaining and glared at the boy.

Geralt nodded. “That’s me. Geralt of Rivia.”  Roche coughed to hide his laugh and led Ves  away. Geralt accepted the note, and the boy ran off.  A quick glance at the message within and Geralt raised his hand towards the others. “You might find this interesting, Roche and you too, Ves.” Geralt read the note aloud.

_Gwynbleidd-_

_The guards assigned to watch the home slept through the night. Head to the docks, dock fifteen. Your answers will sail away at midday._

_Iorveth_

 

 Ves stormed towards Geralt as he folded the note and stretched out her hand. When he did not hand the note to her, she turned to face Roche. “Ves, find the men and question them. Geralt and I will head to the docks.”  Geralt heard her mutter as she stalked off.

 “Apologies, Wolf. Ves will see to the men. We should get to the docks.” Geralt led the way as Roche talked. “Did that simple son of a bitch say anything else?”

 Roche and Iorveth had their differences. Iorveth led the Scoi’tael in the Northern Realms.  The group known as the Squirrels for their preference of hiding up high and in the wooded areas of the wilds, filled their ranks with elves but occasionally included other nonhumans. Iorveth and Roche had a long history of distrust and hate, but worked together on several missions. Each could tolerate the other, but the relationship remained tenuous.  Geralt often relied on Iorveth’s strength of numbers for information and infiltration. He would not start another war of words over the elf and his observations. “No, everything on the note I read aloud. Happy?”

“Not really, no.” Roche said, “a common criminal and his lawless gang upstaged my men and learned valuable information all under my nose does not help my mood.”

The docks on the side of the city, most by fishermen and smaller transport ships, afforded these groups less exposure and easier travel. Geralt spied a single fishing trawler tied to the dock. “Strange choice of transport. Boat that small . . .not meant for  long sea voyages.”

“The elf is wrong. He must have the wrong dock number. There are several areas around the city, we should split up and search.” The two continued around the street corner and towards the trawler.

Geralt heard the twang of a bow and pushed Roche into a storefront as an arrow struck a grassy patch nearby. _Iorveth_ – _or one of his men._ Searching the rooftop, he saw no sign of the archer.

Geralt pulled the arrow up.  “The arrow is a diversion, but why?”

The two held back and waited near a storefront, Geralt keeping the trawler in view. Minutes later the trawler pulled its lines and set out into the harbor. “That wasn’t our target. We need to stay out of sight Roche.”

Not long after the trawler cleared the harbor, a large ship crawled into a slip. The colors hoisted high in the rigging; red and white. The flag bore the silver eagle on red. “Redanian ship,” Geralt muttered, “strange for them to dock here and not the main harbor, wouldn’t you agree?”

Roche growled at the unscheduled arrival. “Free city,” he scoffed, “until the mad bastard decides he wants something and sends his men here.”

Geralt stopped listening to Roche’s lament as a woman emerged a few feet from them, carrying a basket and a large bag. Obscured for the moment, Geralt pulled on Roche’s jacket and hurried towards her.

Startled by the witcher and the appearance of Roche, she gasped and dropped her belongings. “I received a note to be here, I didn’t . . . they took my husband, I was told to be here for protection.”

If the arrival of the ship was part of the plot, Geralt could be certain the widow was not meant to survive. She must have information and someone wanted to silence her. “Roche, can you take her somewhere safe?”

Her breathing, erratic and strained- a clear sign of her fear. “The note promised I would be safe. I have family in Kovir, please. My husband . . .he crafted armor for a young woman, ashen hair, scar marred her face. She paid him far too much but never returned for the items she ordered. The items–they are in the shop, a cloak and gloves. Please, he did nothing wrong. Redania, I didn’t know–I assumed my family sent for me. I would never-”

The fear of being labeled a Redanian supporter in the free city would make any citizen of Novigrad nervous. Geralt wondered how deep into the politics of the Realms Ciri’s disappearance would take him.

Roche’s words soft and soothing served to put her at ease. “If you will come with me, I have a few more questions and then I shall arrange for transport to Kovir, if you wish.”  Roche waited until the widow agreed.  “I’ll find you later, Wolf.”

 Roche would see the woman safe to her family in Kovir and even though Geralt could tell she did not lie, the jumble of information she recounted troubled him. “Why would Radovid concern himself with Ciri’s forgotten armor?” 

A voice drifted from the alleyway behind him. “I find it disturbing you still talk to yourself aloud. Discretion, Gwynbleidd, you find yourself in a monster’s den here in Novigrad.”

“Iorveth, I thought you were dead.” The last time the two had crossed paths, Iorveth had run into trouble with a small mercenary force. He led his men to safety, but rumors of Iorveth’s death circulated not long after his disappearance.

The elf did not step from his concealment between two buildings, and Geralt positioned himself to lean against one side. To any who passed, he was resting against a building deep in thought.  “The same can be said of you,” Iorveth replied. “I . . . searched but found no trace of the girl. These . . .packages arrive in such a covert manner always delivered by a child; we have not seen their origin. It is though they appear from another time and place.”

Iorveth’s conclusion was a possibility. “Who is sending them? If it is Ciri where is she and how do I find her? With Roche and Dijkstra and their contacts, it’s the only way to cover much of the realms to find her.”

“No, Gwynbleidd. Do not trust the past. Test the bond and it will break, I promise you,” the sound of a whistle and shouts in their direction brought to two to full alert. “Follow me, those are Radovid’s men by the sound.”

Shouts of allegiances to Radovid and invocations of the king’s name followed them as the two moved through alleys and buildings avoiding the square and the eyes of the curious. When they reached the warehouse door behind the club, Iorveth listened for a moment and then turned back to Geralt. “Finish whatever you must and then leave. Oxenfurt perhaps, Velen is better - but you would do well to join the sorceress in the Isles.”

He witcher disagreed “The pieces of this puzzle are here, not in the Isles.” Geralt had to follow the clues, Ciri’s fate depended on it. Iorveth’s friendship with Geralt, proved difficult even at the best of times and yet he warned of collusion and danger. “Who can I trust in the city?” He could not imagine such widespread betrayal in the friendships he’d built.

“None but those who wait inside.” Iorveth nodded towards the Rosemary and Thyme. “Remember Gwynbleidd, when the pack is abandoned,  a new leader emerges.”  The elf stared for a moment and hoisted himself onto a neighboring rooftop before continuing out of sight.

Geralt slipped inside as an argument raged on the main floor.

“I don’t care if he’s the bleedin’ king of Redania, you can’t invite him for a quick meal.” Zoltan’s usual charm carried through to the corridor. “You shouldn’t be here! If Roche finds ye, Geralt’d have my hide.”

A feminine sigh and grumble,  caught Geralt’s interest, and he waited behind the service curtain to be sure. When she spoke all doubt vanished. Yennefer had arrived. “I appreciate your concern, but I harmed no one and as for Roche and his little group of men, I can disappear.”

 _Yen. Triss found her,_ he thought. Zoltan was right, he couldn’t trust Roche with Yennefer’s safety. Roche could end the investigation with her arrest and with Yennefer’s past, Roche wouldn’t need proof to convict her. Her association with Emyhr would be enough proof to any magistrate regardless of their leanings.

Stepping out into the bar, Geralt’s long strides rushed him to Yennefer’s side. Even his gentle hand on her arm made her turn to him in haste. “He’s right, Yen. I should not have asked you to come. We need to go.”

Triss pushed her chair back, “Geralt, I didn’t-“

Yennefer completed Triss’ admission. “Triss did not contact me. I received another note and arrived not long after your departure. The godling informed me of his findings. There is old magic at work here. We need Philippa.”

“Old magic?” Dandelion joined them,  “Who else can we contact?”

“Iorveth made an appearance.” Geralt offered as he straddled a chair to sit. “In his usual cryptic way, I shouldn’t trust anyone but the people in this room.”

Zoltan fell into a chair. “Aye. We’ve been talkin’ - me and Dandelion . . . didn’t tell Roche you would be here. But he was here when we arrived. It’s not right Geralt.”

“What about Dijkstra?” Geralt wondered how deep a betrayal they faced.

Triss looked to Yennefer. Geralt did not miss the look that passed between them.

“Dijkstra,” Triss sighed, “we think he’s sheltering Philippa.”

Yennefer placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. He patted her hand once but spoke to Triss. “Where is she?”

Dandelion intervened. “I’ve been trying to tell you since you arrived. Philippa invited you yesterday. I had to tell her you couldn’t attend. She wanted to see you again this morning, but you left before I could tell you.”

Triss continued. “Philippa is a little . . . perturbed. The messenger she sent while you were out demanded your presence this evening, alone.”

“Fine, I’ll go.” Geralt could talk to Philippa about Ciri. “Get a message to her. I’ll be in my room.” Geralt left the group staring after him.

Expectations of loyalty did not exist for Geralt. He’d always trusted Vesemir, Ciri and Yennefer. None of them ever led him to question their motives. If Iorveth spoke the truth, all of them faced potential betrayal from Roche and Dijkstra.

Standing in his room, Geralt spoke his concerns to the empty room. “Philippa  . . . do I trust her or is she working for Radovid again?”  A soft knock interrupted his question.

“It’s open, Yen.” Geralt didn’t need to see her. He knew. The quiet creak of the door revealed her waiting just outside the threshold.

“May I enter?” Yennefer’s question, significant to him because she never asked before.

“Something on your mind?” He didn’t turn to face her. Once he did, he wouldn’t say no. “I should rest before I meet with Philippa.”

A sigh from Yennefer dissolved his indifference. “Geralt, _two years_. Perhaps we might sit and talk?”

His body turned instinctively towards her. “Sit and talk? About what, Yen?” Her steps tentative, he frowned at her reticence. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

She inched closer. “I should have followed you. We were both grieving Ciri.”

“She’s not dead, Yen. I refuse to believe it. I will find her.” Surprised at his own convictions, his eyes widened at her smile.

“I know you will.” Yennefer’s careful steps brought her within inches of him. “May I?”

“What would you do if I said no?” Geralt asked, breathing her nearness.  “Would you leave?”

Slipping her arms around his waist, she rested her head on his chest, “No.”

____________________________

 The hours passed with Geralt and Yen in each other’s company. She told him of her search for Ciri, using magic from the mundane to the forbidden hoping to find a trace of her.

 He exhaled trying to piece what he knew so far. “The magic in the alley. It was raw, but no trace of a creature. The footprint was more than likely human. Do any of the Lodge possess that skill?”

Yennefer considered his words before responding. “Unless hidden from the rest of us? No. What of Hunt- do any of his kind survive? I confess I do not have full knowledge of all those of the Aen Elle. Did you find any proof of a portal nearby?”

Hunt, Frost and their followers lived in the Aen Elle, outside the world, another dimension out of their own.

“Didn’t look,” Geralt admitted, “maybe I should look around the city.”

Yennefer settled her head closer to his chest, clinging to him. “You’ll need my help.”

“No, Yen, it’s too risky for you to remain. The false scent, the glove . . .” Geralt’s voice trailed off. Demanding Yennefer return wouldn’t sit well with her. He hoped she might return on her own.

His thoughts drifted back to Iorveth. _These deliveries, they seem to appear out of nowhere, delivered by children. The go between is not menacing, seems trustworthy and the children no doubt are paid. Perhaps a woman makes the arrangements. A soldier wouldn’t put a child at ease. Not old, young would be best. Narrows it down to thousands within the population_ of _the realms._

The serenity of silence between them shattered with the humming of his medallion. A loud crack and the sound of glass breaking broke them apart.

“Geralt, did you hear that?” Unsure of the sounds, she sat up, wondering what was happening outside. “A car, perhaps?”

Dressing in haste he looked into her shocked face. “That wasn’t a car,” he said wrenched his door open and bellowed into the hall. “Everyone down!” Throwing up his suspenders, he turned back to Yennefer. “Stay here, anything other than me up the stairs, you go–understood?”

“Yes, hurry Geralt!” A quick look back to her and he ran down the stairs feet never quite landing full on a single step. A quick sweep of the room revealed nothing.  His witcher senses heard the approaching car, “get behind the bar, all of you!”  _That first shot was a warning, but who?_

“Geralt, it’s loaded!” Dandelion shouted and tossed a shotgun towards him with both hands before resuming cover behind the bar. Shells scattered across the top of the bar as Dandelion slammed the box down.

Grabbing the rolling shells, he stuffed his pants pocket and rushed to the door. Geralt heard Triss shout his name as he closed the door and checked the shotgun. Tires screamed around the corner. Geralt pulled the hammer back and waited.

He wasn’t invincible. But he would hit something if he aimed straight ahead. A single shot to the glass windshield would at least disorient the driver if not injure him. Geralt did not blink as a car careened towards him.

“Surprise, asshole.” Geralt squeezed the trigger. He didn’t need to look; the pungent sourness left in the air, the screams from inside the car as he rolled out of the way confirmed his aim was true. Geralt discarded the shell on the street and entered the club, barricading the door behind him to the sound crunching metal against brick. 

He searched from person to person for visible injuries. “Is anyone hurt?”  His question, met with silence and disbelieving eyes.  He sighed as no one spoke. “Fine, let’s try this  - nod if you are all right.” Relief washed through him even though each shook their heads. “Very funny,” Geralt said.

Returning the shotgun to its hiding place behind the bar, Geralt picked up the loose shells and stowed them on the shelf below. “Where’s Yen?” 

Shrugs and half-started sentences from the others coupled with her absence in the aftermath furrowed his brow in concern.

“Yen!” Geralt called up the stairs. He waited a moment before bellowing again. “Yennefer, answer me damn it!”

She descended the stairs in deliberate steps. “Geralt, there is no need to shout, patience please.” The slight up curve to her mouth as she neared, should have irked him but instead he pulled her into his arms. “Go. Roche and his men will be here soon. It’s better for you to leave.”

Placing a gentle kiss on his lips she hummed in response. Yennefer gripped the fabric of his shirt and stared into his eyes. He felt her press a round object into his hand. Without breaking her gaze, she whispered, “don’t lose this one.”

Geralt understood. Yen had given him another talisman. “Is this the one I lost?”

Yennefer smiled. “No, Geralt, I had to endure a lecture from the druid who helped me procure the last pair. Please take better care of this one and should you need me, you know what to do.” Releasing his shirt, she turned to the others. “Triss, coming or staying here? Cerys extended an invitation as we discussed earlier. I am not convinced Novigrad is the best place for any of us.”

Conversation swirled around the room but Geralt’s keen vision searched for the first point of impact. “The first shot was a warning, but who fired?” A sunbeam cut through the dark glass illuminated dust in golden light along its path.  Geralt followed the light to the point of entry. His search led his eyes to the ornate etched glass above the plate windows. “There you are,” he muttered.  “Interesting. The entry point is high, too high to have hit anyone or anything vital.” Geralt continued his assessment. “Gunman was on a neighboring rooftop or in a window nearby and saw the car?” He stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets. “No. Whoever did this knew the plan and warned me.”

Zoltan, from his set on the staircase listened to Geralt’s assessment. “Warned ye? What in the bleedin’ hell is going on?”

Geralt wandered towards the window and looked out onto the street. A slight drop in his posture and he turned and gestured for the group to stay silent. His voice low he spoke his instructions. “Yen, Triss both of you go upstairs and out of sight.” The two hurried up the stairs without complaint and Geralt followed with his eyes until the sound a door closing brought his attention to his companions. “The shot rang out through the glass; I blocked the door–are we clear?”

Both men nodded as a furious pounding filled the club. “I know you’re in there Geralt! Open the door!”

 _Roche_ , he thought. _Time to see who blinks first_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss and Yennefer instruct Geralt to seek Philippa Eilhart. Eager to meet with Geralt, she's grown impatient with his absence. Before he can leave, Geralt receives a call from yet another player in Novigrad. Geralt soon realizes they are connected leading him further away from finding Ciri.

Geralt and Zoltan removed the tables and chairs used to barricade the door. It wasn’t necessary, but to give the appearance of a group trying to shelter from violence in the streets, the pile of furniture was the perfect cover.

The two removed enough to open the door enough for one person to squeeze through to find Roche staring in surprise. “What is all this?”

Zoltan huffed. “What’s all this, he says.” The dwarf returned to the stairs and sat with a resounding thud. “All this,” he yelled, “is because some arsehole put holes the club. Nice work on keeping the city safe there, _Vernon_.”

The wolf’s head against Geralt’s shirt hummed, the intense pull of an activated portal a sign that Yen was leaving.  Geralt glanced at Zoltan who stood and stomped up the stairs, an obvious attempt to cover the clatter of books and other things moved about as the portal engaged.

Roche appeared to be unaware of the subterfuge around him. “Zoltan! Enough! Apologies for tearing you from your stupor before midday!” The dwarf growled in response and cut the air with an angry stab of his hand as he continued out of sight. Sitting, Geralt reached under the bar and pulled out a thin metal box.

“So, Dandelion, you quit?” He held aloft a thin silver cigarette case. It had been a gift from one of his former lovers but Dandelion insisted he’d stopped smoking to better his voice. Geralt sniffed the rolled cigarettes. “These are new, my friend.” A smirk grew, and he placed the cigarette between his lips. “Very new,” he chuckled.

Dandelion stammered and grabbed a rag, pretending to wipe down the surface of the bar.

Roche’s patience would not last much longer, but Geralt found ignoring him not as difficult as he thought.  He searched for the matchbooks normally strewn everywhere but found none.  A quick flick of his wrist and the end glowed.

“I didn’t know you smoked, Geralt.” Roche tried to gain the witcher’s attention once again.

Geralt did not turn around. “I don’t. I’ve had worse running through my body, this is nothing.” Geralt didn’t care either way, this annoyed Roche and knowing he did not tolerate smoking, or any vice to excess, Geralt sought to annoy in the simplest of ways.

“Wolf, perhaps you’d care to tell me your side of what took place?” Roche waited, but his crossed arms and shifting weight announced his growing annoyance.

“I’ll tell you what happened!” Dandelion’s zeal at storytelling took over. “My friend returns to murder and mayhem and can’t even rest for an hour without someone riddling my club with bullets and then,” Dandelion took a deep calming breath, “the most awful sounds of metal twisting and crunching–horrifying!”  Dandelion raised an eyebrow and set out a few glasses. “I know what I need.”

Geralt inhaled and exhaled a thin stream of smoke before crushing the cigarette in an offered tin plate. “Sepremento?” Geralt suggested.

Clapping his hands together, Dandelion shifted towards a cabinet and pulled out a bottle. “Indeed. Sepremento it is.”

Roche’s furrowed brow and huff followed by the slam of his open palm on the bar revealed Geralt’s indifference had succeeded. “Wolf!” Placing a hand on Geralt’s shoulder the witcher looked sideways at Roche’s grip and rolled his shoulder forcing Roche to step back.

“Is there a problem?” Geralt’s calm reserve in contrast to Roche’s building annoyance escalated the tension between them. “Tell me something Roche, the armorer’s widow . . .are you sending her on to Kovir or will she be detained?”

“Caution, my friend,” the warning from Roche not veiled in any way, “what you suggest is a brutality I do not possess.” He continued. “Yesenia’s widow will be seen to her family by private escort. Will you explain the burning car outside?”

Geralt shrugged. “Sorry, I was in here protecting the others.”

Roche sighed and hung his head.

“It’s true,“ offered Triss from the top of the stairs, “we all heard the first shot, Geralt told us all to take cover and they piled up the furniture to block the door.” She descended the stairs and waited near the landing. “We couldn’t know if this was Radovid’s men or someone looking to harm any of us.”

Roche wasn’t convinced. Geralt read his disbelief in the closed stance and crossed arms. “I see. Another question, I understand Yennefer of Vengerberg arrived a short while ago, while you and I were out, in fact. Might I speak with her?” 

Refusing to answer, Geralt shifted on the bar stool. Soft hands massaged his shoulders.

“You’re mistaken,” Triss said, continuing to run her hands across his shoulders and back. “Geralt was with me. I can assure you, Yennefer was not here. You understand–of course.” She leaned her body against his back all the while staring back at Roche.

Clearing his throat Roche looked around the room and then back to Triss. “Of . . .of course.”

A strained silence fell in the bar until the phone’s shrill ring filled the space. A few hushed words and Dandelion carried the phone towards Geralt. “It’s for you.”

He shifted enough for Triss to release him without asking her to move. A quick glance in her direction he gave a nod and a slight wink of thanks for her intervention. She grinned and blew a kiss in his direction prompting a choked cough from Roche.

The display between them over, Geralt’s instincts told him Dijkstra held the line at the other end. “Hello Dijkstra.”

“How did you . . .it doesn’t matter, lose Roche and get over here now. We’ve got a problem.” The line disconnected.

  _We’ve got a problem. No shit. I’m trying to figure out which of you two is more likely to shoot me in the back right now._ “I trust you can keep it together here Dandelion?”

After a few more cursory comments,  Geralt retreated up the stairs with Triss close behind. Roche followed until Geralt called back over his shoulder. “You’re not invited Roche. I don’t share.” 

Triss’ laughter continued down the hall until they slipped into Geralt’s room.  “I’m impressed. Nice work. Poor Roche, he’s probably wondering what happened.”

“He’s wondering why the change of heart, Geralt. I confused him, but if you plan to see Dijkstra and make it to Philippa’s in one night, you can’t have Roche following you around.”  She picked up a pack. “Here, Yennefer left this for you. It’s a few trinkets for Philippa, a gesture of goodwill and I’m supposed to remind you to be nice to her. If you make her angry, especially by yourself, it could get messy.”

Geralt donned his coat and harness. “She’s already pissed off, whatever is in that bag better work.”

Philippa’s bad mood started many years prior and despite her prosperity seemed to be in perpetual renewal. She had a particular disgust for Radovid and anyone associated with him, but somehow she tolerated Sigismund Dijkstra.

Triss didn’t leave. She fidgeted. Tucking her hair behind her ear, shifting from foot to foot–She had something to say and didn’t know how.

Biting back frustration, he tried to keep calm. “What? Why do I feel you’re about the share something I don’t want to know?” He turned away and continued his preparations.

She tried to find the right words. “It’s none of my business, but-“

The groan escaped before he could stop it. He’d spent a lifetime defending his relationship with Yennefer. Vesemir  trusted no one who wielded magic but Geralt and Vesemir argued regularly about Yennefer’s influence over him. Those prejudices impacted Geralt’s upbringing, but Yennefer–no one could ever convince him she could ever be disloyal to him.

“If this is about Yen, you’re right.” He turned towards her. “I’m sorry Triss, you’re beautiful, there’s nothing wrong with you, but I can’t. Another life, another time things could have been different. I’ll make you a promise, if you need my help–ask. That’s the best I can give you.”

 Slinging the pack over his shoulder, he smiled. “Hey, if I’m not back by morning do yourself a favor and get to Kaer Trolde.”

 Triss nodded. “Try not to get killed? Yennefer may not be so happy to see me otherwise.”

 “Story of my life, Triss.” Geralt left her alone and headed down the stairs.

  Zoltan and Dandelion sat engrossed in a game of gwent  as Geralt joined them. “Where’s Roche?”

 Dandelion studied his hand and the cards on the table but his free hand pointed towards the entrance. “He left, figured you’d be occupied for a while. You might stick to the side streets and not the main path to The Bathhouse.”

 He knew Dandelion was right. Roche would have men looking for him. “Did Dijkstra close off that sewer entrance? Remember that waste spill? I can get through the fumes with minimal damage, but there’s no way Roche or his men would know of it.”

 Dandelion grabbed the phone and dialed. He waited a moment and handed the receiver to Geralt. “It’s ringing.”

 Dijkstra’s valet answered. After a few threats, the man connected the call.

 “Geralt. I see you still can’t follow directions.” Dijkstra was an ass, but he knew every inch of the city.

 “I’m on my way, needed to lose Roche. That sewer entrance - is it still open or did you repair the walls?” Geralt hoped Dijkstra’s tight purse strings hadn’t loosened, and the hidden entrance remained open.

 “Yes, it’s still filled with those noxious gasses. If you want to use the entrance, go right ahead. Mind the troll.” The line clicked off.

 “Mind the troll?” Geralt said aloud, “he’s joking right?”

 Zoltan studied the game in front of him but spoke to Geralt without breaking his concentration. “Won it in a gwent tourney, I heard. Some poor slob lost everything, including a pet troll. He’s tame, likes scaring the curious away from the cellars.”

 "How charming. Dijkstra has a soft spot for trolls.” Geralt offered.

 A snorted laugh and slap to his thigh from Zoltan interrupted his concentration. Gwent was not a casual dalliance to Zoltan, the card game of choice across the realms, Zoltan saw a path to recognition and respect through his wins. “I can’t be sure, but I heard there’s a bit of a resemblance.”

“Careful Zoltan, spread rumors like that, and your gwent tourney days are over.” Geralt left the two laughing and snuck out the back of the club towards the bathhouse.

Geralt avoided Roche’s men. What troubled him was the increased number of Radovid’s patrols in the streets. Ignored by many of the soldiers, the occasional muttering of ‘freak’ or ‘mutant’ as he passed did not trouble him and Geralt wondered what the sudden influx could mean for Novigrad.  Political implications aside, a patrol blocked the passage to the sewers. Geralt would have to risk the main entrance.

The Bathhouse. There was a time this hidden establishment boasted marble baths and decadent nights, but after the war and Sigismund Dijkstra descended on Novigrad, the Bathhouse became the center of the underworld of the Northern Realms. Smugglers, thieves, bandits down to the common street pickpocket answered to Dijkstra. Those who worked outside his rule disappeared. Dijkstra built his empire in back alleys and darkened walkways, through shady deals and loose morals he thrived. It was their bond in the war that allowed Geralt and the others to move freely about the cities without trouble. This was the rule, his inner circle could not be touched, even looking sideways at Geralt would bring swift punishment.

Once the head of the secret service for Redania, Dijkstra could be cruel, but he had always proven loyal. Geralt could not believe the Dijkstra or Roche would risk exposure through betrayals of trust. _What if Iorveth is wrong?_ Geralt wondered as he slipped through the archway to the main entrance. He needed Roche and Dijkstra to help find Ciri. Once she was safe, nothing else mattered.

The door opened before he could knock.

“The gentleman is expected and late. Kindly leave your weapons in the next room and follow me.” The major domo for the Bathhouse didn’t like Geralt, but never pressed him.

“Not a chance. I know the way.” He sidestepped the man and pushed the door leading through to the private quarters of Sigismund Dijkstra.

Dijkstra’s office proved to be quite the conundrum. Bookshelves lines the walls from floor to ceiling each one crammed with books, papers and maps, each one more overflowing than the last and yet no one had ever seen him crack a book, unfurl a map or so much as look at a paper.

His desk remained clean except for a bottle of whiskey, several ashtrays and a very large humidor made from an elder tree. Dijkstra believed it to be bewitched to protect his beloved cigars.

The man himself, imposing and large. His physique akin to the large bears that roamed Redania’s wilds. Dijkstra didn’t need to move; in fact, he never appeared in public. Meetings took place on Dijkstra’s terms and his own turf.

A smirk settled on Geralt’s face as Dijkstra dropped his large frame into his chair. “How’s Philippa these days?”

Coughing at the revelation from the witcher he rested the cigar in the ashtray closest to him. “Mutant bastard, who talked?”

Geralt removed his harness and fell into a large overstuffed chair. “Cozy. So back to the sorceress, care to explain?”

He picked up his cigar between his pudgy fingers. Grabbing the table lighter, Dijkstra took his time.

“You can tell me what’s going on, or I can be even later to meet with Philippa, your move.”  Geralt stretched and shifted in his seat.

Dijkstra drew the smoke into his mouth. He’d once told Geralt the secret to a good cigar was not to inhale but to taste it, savor it, allow the smoke to roll on your tongue like a fine wine or rich spirits and then exhale. Geralt’s enjoyment of rolled tobacco was an indulgence, but Dijkstra’s love of cigars explained the constant cloud hanging through his rooms.

“We’re going to Phil’s together, Wolf. I have something private we must discuss before we leave.”  Dijkstra pressed a buzzer affixed to his desk.

“It’s Phil now? I thought she made it clear you weren’t her type, addressed you by the proper names of livestock.” Geralt was a witness to Philippa’s tirade, the screaming harpy within her unleashed on the man, the shredded roses and a dejected Dijkstra fueled Geralt’s serious dislike of one Philippa Eilhart.

“Yes, well–the enemy of my enemy and all that rot.” Dijkstra poured two glasses and slung the whiskey towards Geralt.

“Not right now.” Geralt pushed the glass away. “I need to focus on Ciri. . .”

The major domo returned to the office and handed several large envelopes to Dijkstra and left without a word. Dijkstra tapped his fingers atop the papers. “Tomorrow, you’ll head to Oxenfurt. The body is on its way to the University to Shani. She’s expecting you. Wolf, the man sold substandard goods, and that is why I pulled my contracts from him. Had I known Ciri needed help, I would have offered.”

“Ciri never picked up her armor. She went after Frost without it.” He stared at Dijkstra. “The armorer did nothing wrong. Her items were completed and waited for her, the man never spent the money, it was all there. Someone tried to frame Yen.”

Dijkstra said nothing and continued to smoke.

Narrowing his eyes at the man across the desk, Geralt leaned in. “You know something.”

Dijkstra passed an envelope across the desk. Geralt did not take his eyes off his friend as he opened the envelope. He felt thick paper, slick on top and grained on the bottom. _Photographs_ , he thought, _this can’t be good._ He slid the contents out and looked at the papers in his hands.

The image was taken through an open window from a tree or other position higher from the ground, he could make out the open window sashes on the sides. The crest on the wall, a silver eagle. Radovid. Geralt flipped to the next photo. The king of Redania, Radovid V, waited in his bed chamber. “I don’t like where this is going, Dijkstra. If he has Ciri. . .”

“If he had Ciri, I’d have killed him after I received these.” He nodded towards the photos. “I’m sorry, but you need to know, Wolf.”

He knew before seeing the next image. Yennefer. She walked through the receiving room near the crest. He had his share of women over the years, but always returned to her. He never asked or expected her to remain monogamous, their paths were separate and both looked forward to moments where time together presented itself.

“Sorry, I don’t believe it. She wouldn’t. Not with him, not even for information or favors–not when Emhyr. . .” His voice trailed off as he thought of her. Yen had secrets. She’d share information with Geralt if she learned anything important, but meeting with Radovid - she despised him. “Not a chance.”

“There’s more, and for what it’s worth, I don’t believe she bedded him. Unlike you, she has class, Wolf.” The chuckle from the man across the desk loosened Geralt’s tightening chest.

“When were these taken?” Geralt asked. “Wait. I don’t want to know.”

Shaking his head, Dijkstra motioned towards the pictures. “Keep going.”

The next image soured his stomach. “Roche.” Vernon Roche arguing with Yennefer, gripping her arm. “What was Roche doing?” The following photo showed the edge of a portal. _Yen’s departure_ , he guessed. _Yen played me. Not like I don’t deserve it, but I believed her. All about Cirilla. Sure, Yen._

“You still with me?” Dijkstra took no pleasure in sharing the information. Yennefer of Vengerberg was inconsequential. They had a larger problem. Dijkstra stood. “There is one final image.”

Geralt stared at the pile of photographs in his hands before flipping to the last image. Iorveth’s warning rang true. Roche kneeled before Radovid. “You sure this is what it looks like?”

Grumbling in response Dijkstra passed a smaller envelope to Geralt. “Enough to offer you a contract on Vernon Roche. He needs to disappear, Wolf. Roche knows far too much about all of us.”

The witcher closed his eyes to think. He shook his head. “I can’t without more.” Geralt started, rising to his feet, “I promise if the information is good and I can prove it, I’ll be the one to take care of Roche. Agreed?”

A knock on the office door interrupted the conversation. “Sir, you are overdue for the-“

Dijkstra barked out a warning to his man and gestured towards the door. “Time to go, Wolf. We’ll talk more another time.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt arrives to meet with Philippa Eilhart and learns he missed one hell of party-one that will change the fortune of Novigrad and force a change of venue.

Dijkstra’s car stopped in front of a three-story house. Geralt surveyed the guards at the doors and in the small garden to the side. “Philippa under house arrest?”

 “Trying to keep others out, Geralt.” Dijkstra looked out the window and nodded to one guard. “Get out. When you’re done, go back to the club and then head to Oxenfurt.” He pulled out a rectangular box. “Here, you really should take this–using those kitchen knives is a damned joke.”

 Geralt knew the box contained firearms, most likely hand guns. He shook his head. “I’m a witcher, not a bandit. I don’t use guns.” Geralt opened the vehicle door and shifted his body to climb out. “Besides, I like these kitchen knives.” Once the car pulled away, a guard knocked on the front door, and Geralt could hear the tumblers unlock from the other side.

  _A lot of precaution for someone not under house arrest._ He waiting in the foyer until a piercing yell cut through the silence.

 “Geralt! Upstairs!” Philippa Eilhart was as expected - displeased.

  _Right away, princess_. He sighed and climbed the steps to find a large dining hall laid out for a feast. “Expecting more guests?”

 “Ah, Geralt. Appalling sense of time for a witcher. I thought you were supposed to have better senses than we lowly humans. How lovely of you to keep me waiting.” Philippa’s foul disposition hidden in her usual sarcasm and disdain for the witcher coated every word.

 Geralt’s patience would not last long if she continued. “Philippa… ,I’m trying to find out about-“

 “Cirilla, as you can see, is not here. I have sent out messages for the others to assist. We will find her, make no mistake. Now. As to your other problem.”

 Philippa’s preoccupation with the food on the table seemed out of place, but he’d have to play along to get the information he needed. “My other problem?”

 “Geralt you cannot be as daft as you present yourself. The body, the concentrated magic at the scene, the blatant attempt to implicate poor Yennefer. Tsk, tsk. I’m disappointed in you.”

 She was too pleased with herself. Half clues and insinuations, Philippa delighted in this form of torment. Rather than engage her in war of words, Geralt tossed the pack onto the table scattering a few platters of food to the floor. “Here. Enough posturing _Phil_ , tell me what you know about the body.” Using Dijkstra’s pet name for her set her jaw and wiped the smile from her.

 She dug through the pack, picking through items. Geralt remembered a conversation with Dijkstra about an injury to Philippa’s eyes. She was blind. The woman before him was not. He balanced himself, legs slightly apart and reached for a dagger he kept hidden in his boot. He drew the Quen sign activating his personal shield.

 She laughed. “Really, Geralt?”

 He did not relax and sidestepped towards the end of the table. “Your eyes, how is it you can see?”

 A simple wave of light passed over her face revealed an angry red scar across her face barely covered by a sheer golden scarf with script. A deeper sweep of his vision revealed the script pulsed. “A glamour. I have my pride, Geralt. Magic gives the illusion of eyes and the script on the swath gives me sight not unlike your own.” Her earlier bravado gone, he realized his error–reminding her of the torture endured at the hands of Redania was never his intention.

 Inclining his head in a slight bow he apologized. “I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to fight.”

 “Apology accepted.” She dug through a plate of fruit before gesturing towards a covered serving plate. “Hungry?” Philippa popped a grape into her mouth. “You really should try the chicken, it’s quite good.” She grinned at him. “Sit, please.”

 Geralt spun a chair towards him to sit. “What’s this about?”

 “To the point -very well. You are several days late, you see. I’d needed your help then but according to your little troupe of followers, you were far too busy. I was left with one tiny nuisance and had to. . . solve the problem without your help.”

 His earlier annoyance returned. “Wonderful. Congratulations. If you’re not willing to help Philippa, I’ll be on my way.”

 “Ugh. Manners, Geralt. You can leave whenever you wish. But, I am afraid I cannot allow you to go until–“

 Moving to his feet he cut her off. “Until what?” Geralt’s annoyance compounded with each smug word she uttered. His next words fell out with a growl. “Out with it already.”

 She pursed her lips. “I’ll never understand how _you_ managed to seduced half the Lodge.”

 Philippa’s attitude, her unwillingness to share what she knew and her cryptic tiptoe around some issue of her own proved more than Geralt wanted to face. “We’re done.”

 Angry with himself for wasting valuable time, Geralt picked up the chair and prepared to toss it against the wall. Stopping himself in favor of intimidating Philippa, he returned the chair tableside without a word.  He rolled his shoulders and prepared to leave.

 “Wait. Open those senses of yours, Geralt. Tell me what you see.” The pitch of her voice, lower, softer reminded him of Yen and Triss when they wanted something from him.

  _What was it Vesemir warned me of . . .right, beware of a kind sorceress, it’s not weakness they show - its cunning._ He pushed aside his thoughts and inspected his surroundings. Trying to explain how he shifted his perceptions to use his enhanced senses was never easy. Yennefer had asked him several times over the years to explain.

_“Try me, Geralt. You might be surprised what I can and cannot comprehend. Me, the inferior species.” Yen laughed as she teased him. “I’m curious if there is a shift in your awareness or if you ignore it until the skills are needed.” She leaned in closer to him, stroking his chest, “indulge me.”_

_“Unfair, Yen. Keep that up and I’ll do just about anything you ask.” He gathered her into his arms._

_P_ _ushing back, she looked up into his face, “in a moment Geralt, first. . .would you answer my question?”_

_"Focusing your eyes through a spyglass, I think that’s the best explanation. It’s always there, but if I don’t need to listen further or look deeper–I don’t.”_

He wondered if Philippa’s request was real or a challenge, regardless of her motives–Philippa had a secret. _Something is in this room she won’t tell me what, but she wants me to find it_ , he thought. Shifting his focus to observe each object around him, he scanned the room. _Medallion’s not humming at all, which considering Philippa’s usual games of choice, magic is not involved._  Philippa, much like Yennefer and the others in the Lodge, could create illusions with strong magic. Geralt expected it, but found nothing.

He inhaled long and deep, the heady scent of metal and iron filled his nostrils. _Blood. A lot of it._ Geralt’s awareness snapped to the sorceress eating casually behind the table. “What did you do?”

A laugh escaped her. Geralt hoped he’d hidden the surprise at her reaction well enough. He said nothing and continued to watch her. She rose from her chair and ambled back and forth in the contemplative state as she spoke. “I’m afraid it was beyond my control. At least I was unaware until it was over.”

The table provided a natural barrier between them. Geralt could tell no one else approached the dining hall. If Philippa struck, he would be the only target.

She turned towards him and nodded once before resuming her tale. “Had you arrived when I sent for you, perhaps we’d be discussing something altogether different.”

Geralt listened as Philippa explained the circumstances of the city prior to his arrival. He said nothing as she laid out the concerns surrounding Radovid’s increased presence and his attempted intimidation of several members of the Lodge. She continued as his mind wandered.

_Yen. That’s why she was in Radovid’s apartments in the city. He’d tried to gain her support for whatever he was planning. Roche must be a part of it. Dijkstra could have Radovid eliminated, but any such action in Novigrad would implicate Dijkstra. Unless. . ._

“You want me to kill Radovid, is that what this floor show is about?” Geralt’s scowl and furrowed brow showed he had no intention of killing the monarch. “I’m not an assassin, Philippa.”

She nodded. “Ah, I see. You are half right, witcher.” Philippa stood near the table and in one motion removed the bell on the dinner platter to reveal a severed head. Eyes sunken in death the gold circlet crown he’d seen on so many occasions in the past, left no doubt to the head’s origin.

“Radovid.” Geralt’s swift steps brought him to her side. He took the serving bell from Philippa’s hand and replaced it. “No wonder there are so many patrols. You persuaded Dijkstra to bring me here, to do what? Clean up your mess?”

“Dijkstra knows nothing. I offer an exchange, Geralt. As you say, clean up the mess and I’ll tell you what I know.” Philippa didn’t ask for help, she bartered with information. Geralt couldn’t know Philippa knew anything of note, or if she’d answer questions about Ciri. If he helped, Philippa could use his involvement to her advantage.

“Not a chance. Saved me the trouble.” Geralt caught her jaw clench. “You should have told Dijkstra the truth. This is too deep even for me.”

Philippa held her anger but called after Geralt as he left. “Letho will help. I’ll bring him to Novigrad.”

Letho, witcher from the Viper school, would not help Philippa even with a large purse attached. Geralt saw him three years’ prior in a small town outside Velen. Letho made it clear he planned to disappear. Geralt wasn’t buying into Philippa’s threat. Letho in Novigrad would invite trouble for Letho more than the city.

“Nice try. Letho is out of your reach and he might take exception to your . . .  indiscretion.” Nodding towards the table he continued. “I will pass along your helpfulness to Yennefer and Triss.”

Geralt strolled out of the room and down the stairs to stream of angry words and obscenities hurled at his back. _I’ll have to warn Dijkstra,_ thought Geralt as he stepped out into the night _, “he deserves to know the trouble she’d brought the city.”_  

Skulking through the city at night. A task reserved for either the confident or the stupid and for Geralt, finding his way back to The Bathhouse, while avoiding Roche, Ves and the Redanian patrols called for a change in tactic.  Iorveth once told him the safest route in any city lay above it and Geralt took to the rooftops to test the theory. Once Radovid’s demise filtered into the public, Novigrad might become a very different city.

Arriving at The Bathhouse, Geralt pounded on the door  summoning the major domo. When the door opened, Geralt squeezed through and into the private quarters. The man chased after him but Geralt stopped him with an outstretched hand. “Listen, if you have additional men available, wake them up and set them out into the streets. If your boss doesn’t solve a certain situation, you will need the men–got it?”

A simple nod and a quick turn sent the major domo scurrying away. Geralt tried the handle and realized the door locked from the inside. After a few heavy kicks, he cracked the frame enough for the door to disengage. “Dijkstra! Time to wake up!” Geralt continued deeper into the hall following the trail of cigar smoke to find Dijkstra sitting at his desk. “Can you guess the only words I want to hear right now?”

“What are you doing here? You should be on the way to Oxenfurt.”

Geralt leaned on the desk. “Wrong words. Try this- I had nothing to do with it, Geralt.”

“You must be specific, Wolf.” Dijkstra leaned back. 

The witcher exhaled and growled. “Did you put Philippa up to Radovid’s murder?”

Dijkstra paled. “You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke, remember. No sense of humor. She’s put his head on a platter and it’s sitting on her fucking dinner table. _You_ have a serious problem. Radovid’s dead _inside the city_. All those patrols are _looking for him_ and you’ve a sorceress locked in a house who’s gone mad. She asked me to clean it up in exchange for information, threatened to bring Letho in–what are you going to do?” Geralt huffed through his nose. Once again, he knew he’d be drawn in.

Dijkstra stood and straightened his shirt. “Wolf, I’ll get your information and pay you. Help me clean up her mess.”

Geralt wanted to refuse and walk away. The problem stemmed from the seriousness of the crime. Redania would arrive in force; attempt to take control of Novigrad. Dijkstra and Roche wouldn’t suffer. The citizens would bear the weight of the retaliation. “You owe me, do you understand? The bank of favors I expect from this has no limit.”

Dijkstra nodded before he replied, “name it and it’s yours, but for now we’ll need a place to hide the body as well, any ideas?”

In a city filled with guards, secret police and shady characters lurking around every corner to gather information to sell, the best place to hide a body would be the cemetery.

Neither man a stranger to cleaning up such indiscretions, both worked in silence gathering the dead monarch’s corpse and Geralt rolled his eyes after a closer look at the platter revealed a decorative design of vegetables and fruit in rings around the blood drenched platter. Dumping the contents into the body bag, Geralt used his head to show it was time to go.  The house opened out into the alley, and their destination was not far, but posed any number of problems. Discovery the worst of all outcomes.

“Should have taken the fucking car, Wolf. “ A constant stream of muttered curses fell from Dijkstra even though the heavy lifting fell on Geralt’s shoulders.  

“You realize the plate had a garnish on it.” Geralt offered.

Dijkstra stopped walking and glared. “You’re not funny, Wolf,”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he said adjusting the body bag on his shoulder, “she put a fucking garnish on it.”

Years of secrets, assassinations and untold horrors had hardened Dijkstra, but the sigh as he walked showed he’d never seen such a thing before. “Wolf, that’s enough.”

“I’d be more careful in the future with women. That’s all I’m saying.”  Geralt stared straight ahead.

Dijkstra scoffed. “You don’t get to lecture _anyone_ about women. Keep it up and I’ll start from the beginning and give you a list.”  Geralt chuckled as the two continued through the streets.

Encountering no more than one or two stragglers, Geralt’s ability to home in on any lurkers proved useful. A quick Axii sign and the memory of the two men entering the crypts melted into confusion and sleep. The crypt underground, devoid of life offered the perfect interment of the mad bastard himself. The sarcophagus belonged to a family long forgotten in Novigrad.

Tossing the corpse and severed head into the stone box, Geralt pushed the cover back obscuring the uninvited guest from all view. An Aard sign drawn, the dust and dirt exploded up and out coating the surfaces to hide any sign of their endeavor.  Task completed, both returned to the large house to deal with the larger predicament of what to do with Philippa. A solution occurred to Geralt as the two entered the house.

“Trust me, this won’t be pleasant but you’ll be able to get Philippa out of the city.” Geralt dug out a set of shackles from his pack.

“Dimeritium. It’s the only thing to block her magic.” Dijkstra said, aware of the lack of options. He agreed. Philippa would not be cooperative; the dimeritium would at least offer some reassurances. The confrontation with Philippa proved a surprise. She surrendered without incident, spoke at length about Ciri’s abilities, and directed Geralt to another scholar at the University who might know more about Johnny’s references to the Mother.

Dijkstra assured Geralt of his plans to arrange Philippa’s departure from the city and the gutting of the house she used.  When Dijkstra tried to pay him, the witcher declined. She had every right to take her revenge, Radovid’s torture both physical and psychological deserved retribution. He’d blinded her and kept her captive. Radovid’s death was too quick for all the pain and suffering he inflicted on others for years.

 Once out of Dijkstra’s company, Geralt returned to the Rosemary and Thyme to find Dandelion, Zoltan and Triss waiting for him. “Time to pack it up. City isn’t safe anymore. Head to your place in Oxenfurt, Dandelion. Novigrad will get much worse.”

Dandelion said nothing while Triss and Zoltan stood and moved towards the stairs. He called after them, “wait, we don’t know for sure!”

Turning around, Zoltan tilted his head towards the stairs. “Yes, we do. If Geralt is telling ye ta go, he knows.”

“Come on, Dandelion, Dijkstra will look after the club. Triss, would you help them to Oxenfurt?“ Geralt asked, he’d make sure they were gone before leaving with Roach.

“Sure, Geralt, I’ll go along with them.” She climbed the stairs leaving Dandelion and Geralt alone.

Geralt sat at the bar, “tell you what, get packed and ready in less than fifteen minutes I’ll sit and listen to you sing one night a week.”

“Five nights,” he retorted.

Shaking his head, Geralt held up two fingers, “two nights . . . and half a dozen cases of whatever Corvo Bianco stock you want.”

A grin spread across Dandelion’s face, “even the Sepremento?”

Geralt offered his hand, “even the Sepremento, only move your ass would you, I want to get you all out of here as soon as possible.” He slid off the stool, in several quick steps secured the front door, and bolted it from the inside. “I’ll secure the rest of the doors, go.”   Geralt continued through the service entrance to find Roach waiting and after checking for any curious eyes, he walked Roach out into the back alley. It was then Geralt remembered Johnny. The godling could care for himself, but would consider it rude if left alone without a word.

“It is time to go witcher,” a young voice spoke from the alley. Geralt turned to see Johnny smiling up at him.

“Will you go to Oxenfurt?” Geralt asked, crouching down to talk with the godling.

Johnny shook his head. “I’ve never been to Iles and the lady asked. She promised ancient trees, secrets in the sea winds and creatures unlike any I’ve seen before.”

The witcher understood, Yennefer sought to protect Johnny and the Iles would keep him occupied. “Johnny, there are frozen forests, ancient trees and many secrets – your kind of place. Do me a favor and mind the lady, all right?”

The godling giggled and jumped from foot to foot. “You should heed your own advice witcher.”   

Geralt tried to hide a grin. _Great. Taking relationship advice from a godling. I need a new line of work._ “You’re probably right, Johnny.”

Johnny clucked his tongue and continued his strange dance on his feet. “I’m afraid I must agree with the lady, noble witcher. You are a special, but you forget to use that human brain of yours - that’s the problem. Will you visit me again?”

“Sure, Johnny, see you around.” Geralt jerked his head back into the club, a not so subtle direction to the godling to leave. Johnny often misunderstood figures of speech and twisted them around to fit his understanding. He wondered what Yennefer had said. “Doesn’t matter, time to go.”

Returning inside, a portal winked out. “Are you sure you won’t come with us, Geralt?” Triss asked, “wouldn’t it be better to arrive with us?”

While Geralt searched for the right words, Dandelion spoke up. “We can just appear, Triss, the authorities in Oxenfurt accept me arriving at odd hours.” He crossed the room to see Geralt out, “our friend here needs to be seen arriving. Come on, I’ll lock up behind you and then we’ll go.” The two walked through the service entrance. “You realize Oxenfurt is an occupied city, right? I’m trying to follow your logic here.”

Geralt understood his concerns, but he couldn’t share what he’d seen and continued out into the alley.

Dandelion scratched his head. “I get it. Better I know nothing, so when asked it’s the truth.”

Roach roared to life as Geralt sat down. “Something like that. See you.”  


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expected in Oxenfurt, Geralt's absence worries Shani. Olgierd Von Everec promises aid and sets out the find the missing witcher.

_Ciri lives. I need to find her._ Roach turned towards the southeast towards Oxenfurt, the ride short with Roach in control. Geralt spent the time trying to decipher much of Philippa’s information. The bracelet proved Ciri had removed it. Philippa explained the magic infused gem would have changed color if Ciri had not survived.

Philippa showed particular interest in Johnny’s mention of the Mother. She believed the godling referred to Melitele, the mother goddess and recommended a scholar at the academy well versed in religion as well as contacting Nenneke in Ellander. _Nenneke . . .haven’t spoken to her in years. She took care of Ciri, saw to her studies–beyond what we could show her._ He paused, thinking about Ciri and her unruly behavior. Nenneke, Yennefer and Vesemir readied Ciri as best they could. He blamed himself for her unruliness. Geralt never took to authority well, so young when he arrived at Kaer Morhen, Geralt pushed back throughout his training. When Ciri became his ward, he indulged her - even encouraged her to enjoy herself and the training, running the walls in favor of recklessness and taking risks to advance her skills. Geralt blamed himself for cultivating his own worst traits in her.

A streak of violet lightning caught his attention further up the road. “Odd color,” he said aloud and tried to accelerate. An unexpected sputter from the engine and a continued decrease in speed forced Geralt to grasp the handgrips, pull in the clutch and shift down. “Roach, come on. A little lightning is nothing to get excited about, let’s go.”

A massive impact in the wooded area to his right pulled Geralt’s focus into the woods. Roach slowed even more and wobbled from the lack of speed. “Still afraid of creatures,” Geralt pulled off the road, “what I want to know is - _how_ you know?” Another flash of lightning forked through the soundless sky. “No thunder - it has to be a portal.” He rolled his shoulders, “this should be fun.” 

Geralt entered the woods, reaching out to look beyond the normal range of vision. The search with his senses revealed sounds of weighty steps deeper into the woods; warning him whatever walked was immense. Cautious steps prevailed as Geralt scanned the forest; he was alone with the creature up ahead. He tuned his ears once again for clues to his foe. No breath - no sounds other than the clump of massive footfalls. Geralt returned to Roach and dug through the pack. He’d have to guess. “Elemental or Golem, best guess.” Grabbing the Elementa oil, he applied it as he sped back into the woods. Either creature would be tough, but bullets would be useless. Most were immune to magic, poison, even his Aard sign would have little effect. The creature in the woods had a single purpose - to delay his arrival. “I need to hurry, something is happening in the city.”

_____________________

Oxenfurt considered itself the most enlightened in all the Northern Realms. The elves build the aqueducts and the compound now known as the Oxenfurt Academy but time and the disappearance of the elves brought the city into disrepair. Redania assumed control, renovated the aqueducts to modernize the city’s sewers and dominated the academic world with the combined intelligence and resources of the faculty housed at the academy.

Progressive thought at the academy is encouraged and even lauded. Failure is a step towards redemption.

Danuska, Dana to those she knew well, walked in the shadow of failure. The narrow streets of the city encroached on her sadness. Her father passed away from age, not drink as so many did. She lamented not his loss but her failure to perfect her tanning process. He’d risked his livelihood to please her, using her methods to cure his leatherwork. Her solutions should have prolonged and strengthened the useful life, but she’d been unable to stave off the wear and found her methods weakened the strength of the hide.

“What does it matter,” she muttered, “the people want silks and woven fabrics, tanners fall away into history. Leathers and the like reserved for show, not used as they once were. It is better he died than to disappear into nothing.”  

She’d been more despondent after the funeral. No one would listen as he did because her father had  believed in her. Danuska wondered if there were still lands where her craft might be useful. The faculty in the school of Alchemy had ridiculed her for her reckless mixing and while she had discovered various concoctions, most were toxic in fumes or in application. Her classmates had dubbed her _the_ _Poison Princess_.  

“Pfft,” the rush of air through her pursed lips dismissed the horrible name. She looked again at the paper left under her dormitory door. The handmade paper, beautiful in its simplicity, appealed to her. An artisan made this paper, not a machine. Her hand closed around the note; she could recite the words printed in charcoal by memory:

 

_Your methods intrigue me. I may have the solution to your problems. Meet me at the academy’s storage warehouse in the harbor district at Midnight._

Without help, she’d have to move from the city.  Academics kept odd hours, often slept in the daytime and worked through the night when inspiration took control. Venturing out this late was normal and consistent with her academic career. She turned left to cut between the warehouses and found the exit blocked by shipping crates. Sighing she turned around to return to the street, “I should pay closer attention.”

A warm breeze passed through the narrow straight. Danuska knew the scent the warm air carried in the small space. _Lilacs_. “Someone used a heavy hand with their perfume, it seems. Too much spoils the scent,” complaining to no one in particular.

The clack of boots on wet stone caught her attention, but Danuska ignored the passing pedestrian, she found it odd on such a humid night someone would walk around in a heavy cloak. “The exit is blocked,” she called out to be helpful.

A woman’s voice floated back towards her, “I know. I am the one responsible. One should admit to such works, wouldn’t you agree?”

The woman’s voice was unfamiliar, but refined. Danuska wondered if she was a student at the academy until the woman’s words solidified in Danuska’s head. “You blocked the passage? Why?” Obscured in shadow, Danuska’s discomfort grew as she turned to speak with pedestrian. Her mind wandered. _Mother used to speak of night creatures, vampires, the cursed and the forgotten._ She shook her head to such nonsense as the woman spoke again. 

“You forced the old tanner to weaken his leathers. Why?” A hood covered the top of her head, but in the moonlight, the woman’s pale skin appeared to glow. “Did you think you could harm another and not pay a price?”

“Pay a price? W-w-what are you talking about? I’ve harmed none. Of what tanner do you speak?” Her mind leapt to her father, but he was one of many in the realms.

The figure tilted her head, a strange action as if sizing up Danuska. “Patience, little Dana. Your father was a good man. He couldn’t know what he’d done. He made the belt, perfect edges, and perfect seams.”

Danuska stumbled backwards into a stacked pile of crates. Her head whipped around left to right as her heart pounded in her chest. “How is it the crates are…” She could almost hear a grin in the woman’s voice as boots scuffed and clacked walking closer to her.

“Little Dana, we have business to discuss; privacy a must, I’m afraid.” The cloaked figure stood before Danuska indeed wearing a grin. “He still sewed the seams by hand, did you know? No, you couldn’t.” The grin contorted into a scowl, and Danuska’s fear intensified as the woman continued, her tone biting and dark.   

“If you knew of your father’s level of skill and or even _bothered_ to listen to his objections, perhaps the outcome of our meeting would have taken a different route. A child who thinks they know better and refuses to listen to the wisdom of the past, tsk, for shame. You _shame_ your father with your disrespect.”

Shaking her head, Danuska couldn’t listen to the woman’s words. “No, no–he understood.”

“What would happen if he used your little mixes on such threaded seams? The heat seal would only hold for so long, the hide would break–and it did. The strap snapped, and all she carried shattered. Your father so loved you he set aside his own concerns and treated the pack as _you_ directed.”

It was true. If her father sewed the hide pieces together first before he sealed them, the seams would fail with time. Back against the crates, she tried to make sense of data presented. “Please, I would never–I did not know his methods. You speak the truth; I should have listened to him.” She swallowed, mouth and throat dry she prayed before asking her question. “My father . . .did you?”

The woman held out her hands.  Gloved in an unknown hide, Danuska’s tentative reach and shaking hands unnerved her even more.  The woman shook her head in a slow deliberate motion. “No, he was a good man. I regret he passed not long after my visit. He expressed his concerns and his sorrow.” A tighter grip preceded her words. “You are the second, little Dana. You took the one thing that kept the balance in this world and in doing so kept the path in motion.”

Struggling to be free of the woman’s grasp Danuska tried to cry for help and found she could not breathe; sweat bloomed and covered her face stinging her eyes. She shuddered once gulping for air while her chest burned of need. Her body reeled from the pain coursing through her, head swam and the ground fell from beneath her feet. _Poison_. Her mind continued to analyze through the tiny stabs peppering every inch of her hands _. The gloves_ , she thought. Eyes widened in understanding before her heart seized. Her body convulsed as the precious last moment of life escaped her before she fell to the ground.

“Hush, Dana. Papa waits for you.” Gloves discarded next to the body, their potency nullified by sunrise meant no one else would suffer. A quick glance on the street revealed the city still slept. Overheated and exhausted, she tugged on the hood releasing her long raven hair. Another flick of her wrist released the cloak tie, and she bent to drape it over the body. Free of the oppressive cloak and drenched in sweat, she leaned against the brick wall for relief. The portal travel and her diversions in the woods had weakened her. She’d need more time before continuing her work.

_______________

“Damn, you’re ugly,” Geralt could tell the golem would drop soon; the creature staggered and swayed on his stony limbs. The mass of rock had weakened his silver blade, but Geralt was unharmed. Another diving roll to his right and quick Aard sign toppled the creature allowing Geralt to land several blows and end its artificial life. This golem, created to distract Geralt, had served its purpose. He sprinted back to Roach only to catch another streak of lightning a few hundred yards from his position. Geralt snatched the weapon repair kit from his pack and hoped he had enough time. 

________________

“Look, I know you told me Geralt left Novigrad. Dandelion, you aren’t listening. Have you ever taken to the road with Roach? He can travel gate to gate in less than an hour.” Shani tried to remain calm as she spoke to Dandelion on the phone.

Olgierd Von Everec sat nearby listening to Shani’s irritation rise. “No, I don’t have to calm down. When I took. . .” she stopped herself from revealing too much to Olgierd, “took delivery of the item,  I was assured Geralt was on his way to Oxenfurt.” She quieted her voice even more. “Given the nature of said item, a three-hour delay is a _problem_.” Shani pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it in disbelief before listening again to Dandelion’s explanation on the other end of the line.

 Olgierd shook his head. Shani took care of his mates, The Immortals, whenever they found themselves injured.  Olgierd pretended to be a common street thug, but he and his small band were once members of an elite unit in the Redanian Royal Army. After the war, they’d remained in Oxenfurt, reformed as the Immortals, a motorcycle club.

“Hang up luv. Me and the boys–we’ll find him.”  He stood and rolled one shoulder and then the other. “Look here,” he said, flexing his hands and making a fist, “good as new, if someone’s messed with the witcher . . .we’ll mess with them. I’ll bring him here.”

She sighed, Shani knew even if she told Olgierd to leave it alone he wouldn’t. “I just patched you and your boys up, are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Sweet Shani, you worry too much and thank you once again for helping us out.” Olgierd swept his hand out in a grand gesture.

Laughing in response she turned back to her desk, “You’re as bad as Geralt. Fine - please find him, but you and your boys need to be more careful. Drunken bar brawls. What was this over?” She shrugged, “never mind, I don’t want to know.”

Olgierd smiled, inclining his head in a slight nod, “safer not to know, I think.” He left her in her office, his laughter carrying him through the halls and out of the Academy. Six heads turned as their leader flung open the double doors leading out into the courtyard.

“Let’s go. Geralt is three hours overdue, which means someone is messing with him and that means. . .” Olgierd waited for a response.

The others grinned and replied as one. “Time for fun.” A cacophony arose; raucous laughter, engine roars and shouts all around accompanied the Immortals as they rode out in search of a witcher.

Olgierd would never share his concern for Geralt. First, Geralt had returned–strange days for the witcher who’d left the world to return like this. Second, Shani may have tried to mask the truth, but Olgierd, once a part of the secret network of spies and soldiers during the war knew better than to believe her veiled words. Shani, now a doctor; she’d fine-tuned her skills during two wars. If Geralt sent anything to her, it was a body and one which the witcher could not determine cause of death. The final concern . . .Dandelion. The man excelled at bullshit. If he attempted to dissuade Shani’s concerns–trouble had come to Oxenfurt.

Several weeks after Ciri disappeared, Olgierd rode to Kaer Morhen alone.  A debt remained between them and Olgierd believed in settling his debts.

_The mountain path proved too difficult to ride. Olgierd could have forced his way up the path, but the damage to his ride wasn’t worth the added time. He hiked through the woods and up the paths until Kaer Morhen loomed in front of him._

_“What a shithole. This used to be a place of legend, looks like Nilfgaardians shelled every bit of life out of it. Shame.” Olgierd continued towards the gate. He knew it was Hunt and Frost who’d done this damage. No one who lived would ever forget the tales of the Battle of Kaer Morhen. The war had ended, but the papers carried the story for days. Ten stood against ten times their number and prevailed with one tragic loss; the old witcher died at Hunt’s hand. “Tragic tale,” Olgierd muttered, reaching the first of many gates into the massive structure. A strange roar echoed through the doors._

_He pulled aside crates and debris as a massive wave of heat blasted past him as he pushed it open. Entering the main gate Olgierd witnessed a massive bonfire roaring in furious anger and Geralt standing far too close. “Have you gone mad, Geralt?”_

_Sorrow and pain were no strangers. He’d lost his beloved wife, Iris; Geralt had been the one to free her cursed existence. Not wanting to remember her at this moment, Olgierd moved around the bonfire. “Quite the blaze, the bones of your enemies or are we doing a little redecorating?”_

_“Don’t recall inviting you in.” Geralt stared into the fire while Olgierd said nothing._

_An ornate headboard burned in the center of the fire, Olgierd guessed it had meaning to endure such destruction. He looked at the pile of furniture and items gathered in the courtyard awaiting the fire, but it was four small practice swords that caught his eye. No longer than a foot, the small wooden swords were handmade for a child. At that moment, he understood. These items belonged to Ciri and to Yennefer. Geralt attempted to clear the past._

_The witcher seemed tired at first glance, but Olgierd looked again and the familiar pallor of loss crossed the hardened features of the man who’d given Olgierd back his own heart and soul. They were two soldiers who gave of themselves before all others–one lost in his pain and the other unsure how to help._

_Geralt broke the silence after a few minutes.  “Getting rid of a few memories.”_

_When profound loss is new, most believe the easiest way to forget a memory is to destroy it, wipe it from existence. Olgierd had thought much the same, but he well knew the truth; destruction of a thing does not dull the pain or erase the person from your heart. A temporary reprieve and nothing more. “You know, you might want to think about this a little more. Once it’s gone-”_

_“Thanks,” Geralt cut off any attempt at conversation, “see you around. Careful out there at night, wolves still roam these mountains.” Geralt’s words, while vague, carried a simple message: it was time for Olgierd to leave._

The Immortals took to the night in a tight formation, Olgierd at the lead, each scanning the road searching for signs of Geralt. The more he thought about Shani’s words on the phone and Geralt’s state of mind the last time he saw him, Olgierd shivered in the warm air. Everything felt wrong. Several miles from the city gates, Olgierd spied a motorcycle on the side of the road. _Roach, it has to be._  

Pulling to a halt, Olgierd sent the others to search the surrounding woods for Geralt. He sent the six off in pairs in case of any trouble; but Olgierd walked alone. The woods can play tricks on the ear, the eyes and mind. Small twigs tumbling to the forest floor sound like the chattering of teeth. Forest creatures falling to the ground at night become gigantic creatures ready to pounce. Olgierd listened to the woods and heard nothing. The further into the trees he ventured, his heart pounded in his chest. Breathing. He could hear something breathing harsh and shallow. “Geralt,” he hissed, “damn you witcher, if that’s you answer me!”

The breathing slowed and deepened. “Yes, watch your step.” Olgierd stepped into a clearing and staggered backwards in surprise. Geralt knelt, using his sword for support, out of breath and exhausted. Around him lay creatures that had disappeared from the Realms.

“Where . . .where did they all come from?” Olgierd’s cautious steps around the grassy area helped him identify a pile of carcasses; a siren and a golem lay beaten at his feet. As he circled the field, a horrific battle played out in his head, an arch griffon laid askew wing sliced. The beast’s tongue hung from its beak. A wyvern, slit from belly to throat lay next to foglings and a pile of nekkers. “You fought them all–all at once?”

The witcher pushed himself to his feet. “No. They appeared one after the other. Something is happening in Oxenfurt.” Geralt returned his sword to his harness and trudged towards the road.

Olgierd followed, wanted to offer aid, but not wanting to offend the witcher. “Shani received your delivery.”

The witcher slowed his stride, “no Olgierd, there’s more. No one would try to throw so many creatures at me unless the offender believed I would survive. This whole display was to keep me out of the city. We need to hurry.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving in Oxenfurt, Geralt is unaware of the second victim. The city sleeps, an impossibility that disturbs the witcher and Olgierd Von Everec. The safety of Shani at the Academy draws the two to onward.

Oxenfurt remained an occupied city; Redania’s forces stayed after war’s end.  Geralt prepared for the scrutiny and insults from the military forces when he arrived. While Geralt never claimed a definitive allegiance during the wars, his interference and disruption throughout the years continued to fuel anger from all sides.

 Geralt and Olgierd planned to split up when they reached The Alchemy tavern; but the two exchanged perplexed glances riding through the streets. The absence of the city guard and citizens milling about seemed strange and Geralt wondered if Radovid’s disappearance in Novigrad was the cause.

Oxenfurt didn’t shut down after dark, but the missing usual procession of delivery trucks, supply convoys for the Redanian barracks, and the never-ending lines of cargo ships gave the impression the city slept.  The corner where the Alchemy sat was also empty, but soft sounds from inside the tavern gave Geralt little comfort in the peculiar circumstances of the night. Olgierd did not enter the Alchemy with the others.

“I’ve come to expect the strange around you witcher, but this is beyond strange,” Olgierd said, “this silence is something damned odd.  I’m going with you to the Academy.” Olgierd concluded.

His medallion did not indicate an abnormal threat. _Olgierd is right; the sun’s been down a few hours and it’s too quiet._ Geralt’s thoughts shifted to the armorer and then to Shani. If the Academy was as unguarded as the rest of the city, Shani might be in danger.  “Come on, Roach.” Aware of his rider’s needs, Roach sped away leaving Olgierd struggling to catch up.

Geralt arrived at the Academy’s main entrance to find no sign of the  guards. Transport trucks lined the circular drive, but a quick inspection yielded no answers. Olgierd’s arrival brought Geralt out of the motor pool and back to the entrance.

“Bloody hell witcher, a little warning next time.” Olgierd walked his bike off to the side and dusted himself off. “What the fuck is going on? Not a single person on the streets, not a single guard anywhere!”  He hurried off to the guard post and lifted the handset of the phone. “There’s a tone, I’m calling Shani’s office!”  Geralt nodded and continued his search of the vehicles.   

Minutes passed and Olgierd returned to Geralt near the front door.

“Any luck?” Geralt asked, he’d tried both sets of doors and found them locked.

“None, Shani’s not picking up. That phone rings in her office and the guard posts inside. It’s not right, something’s wrong. The keys are gone too, there’s usually a set at the booth.”

Geralt stepped away from doors to think. “Years back; I remember a break in the outer wall on the east side, leads to the rooftops of the residences and the courtyard.”

“I see,“ Olgierd arched a brow, “and why were you sneaking in?”

Geralt gestured for Olgierd to follow him. The path wasn’t difficult to find, nothing on the walls had been changed or repaired.  He climbed the wall quickly turning back to respond. “Pissed off the guards, needed to talk to a professor inside. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”  He pointed to an outcropping further away, “the break in the walls, it’s over there. You stay and keep trying to reach Shani. Once I’m in, I’ll unlock the door.” 

_____________

Aretuza, the magic academy, sat on an island somewhere in Temeria; a general fact known by most, Shani included. The volume she searched for was a gift from Yennefer of Vengerberg and Aretuza to the Academy, she remembered another scholar attempting to open it and failing; the book would only open for one with either latent or active magic abilities. Shani couldn’t open it either, making Geralt’s arrival or delay of greater weight. She’d had no luck contacting Yennefer and feared without Geralt she wouldn’t gain access to the information she required.   Shani abandoned her search in the library and headed out in the courtyard.

When Sigismund Dyjkstra called her, Shani’s fear of conscription back into the service of Radovid occupied her awareness and prompted a quick refusal. Only after Dijkstra clarified Geralt requested her help did she agree to meet his agents. As she crossed the courtyard, Shani tried to weigh her options. Yennefer proved unreachable, and she’d lost track of Triss Merigold, the only other in the Lodge of Sorceresses who might offer help. She resolved to try Dandelion again and hope he would find Triss for her.

Her training in the Redanian army alerted Shani to someone scaling a wall off to her left. A soft grunt and scrape of a single shoe warned the intruder would breach the wall in minutes. Weapons were forbidden on the academy grounds, but she’d have to find a convincing decoy. Scanning the shipments from the day, she spotted an empty bottle discarded on the ground. Her usual annoyance at the carelessness of the students and faculty replaced with a small sense of relief. The small mouth of the bottle might be mistaken for a gun barrel for a few seconds, giving her time–she hoped. She doused the torch nearest her; her usual lament regarding the lack of modern lighting seemed a blessing for once.  The academy had not outfitted the courtyard with electric lights for fear of ruining the aesthetic of the past. In this case, the sand barrel instantly doused the flame hiding her in shadow.

From her hiding place, she saw a cloaked figure jump from the rooftop into the courtyard. Male, by the height and body size. His hair fell to his ears, and it moved with the evening breeze. In one swift motion, the intruder pulled a hood to obscure his face and crossed the courtyard. By his direct path, Shani guessed this was not the intruder’s first visit to the grounds.  Shani held her breath as he passed her hiding space without stopping. She knew the door to the main hall was locked, standard procedure after hours. After several attempts to open the door, the intruder paused and turned back lifting his head in a strange gesture. She heard a familiar sigh and even more familiar voice call out to her.

“You can come out now, Shani. Hiding only works if you’re invisible. Skip the perfume.” Geralt pulled back the hood and smirked. “Did the Redanian army teach you to back yourself into a corner?”

Pushing to her feet, she marched towards him finger extended towards his chest. She poked him while speaking. “You scared me. Why can’t you use the front door like everyone else?” Shani attempted to shove him out of her way and unlock the door.

She left him standing alone, not waiting for a reply. “Is someone trying to break down the door?” As she hurried, the sounds of fists battering the main entry door echoed through the hall. Unless she gained control of the situation, the laments of the faculty in the morning would plague her day. 

Unlocking the front door, Geralt pulled her back before the doors burst inward.

Olgierd’s scowl met Geralt’s amused expression. A slight tilt of the witcher’s head in Shani’s direction redirected the angry visage to a half-smile. “Shani girl, don’t do that again. If the witcher wasn’t so damned odd, we’d have broken the doors to find you.”

“Damned. . .odd,” Geralt raised a brow repeating Olgierd’s comment.

“Who thinks to scale a wall into a guarded location? Only you, witcher. I’m off.” Olgierd waved before leaving, “Geralt, Adela wanted me to remind Mr. Puss Peepers she’s still owed a game, whatever the fuck that means.” He left the two standing in the doorway.

Shani coughed and smiled. “Puss peepers. That’s adorable. I may use that.”

“Don’t,” he looked out in the outer drive, “Shani, where are all the guards? There’s no one here. Scaling the wall was the one way I could be sure to gain entry.”

She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together; an attempt to access any information in her head. “I remember no communications as to an absence, but it is late.” She tried to rationalize the lack of guards when Geralt’s gentle touch grazed her elbow.

“The body, is it safe?” His hushed voice and leading steps made sense to her. Geralt’s concerns were her own. If unguarded, she’d lose the one bit of proof to her suspicions.

  “Follow me.” She quickened her pace and led him through multiple doors until reaching one leading down into a cellar. “Through here, Geralt.” More corridors and turns led them deeper underground until the air cooled.

The confusing twists and turns and possible paths beneath the academy eased his fears of theft or destruction. “Never mind, anyone would get lost trying to find a body down here,” He grumbled.

A light laugh escaped as she explained. “We found these catacombs during the worst of the shelling quite by accident.“ She stopped and turned to face him, “Geralt, there are laboratories down here, alchemy, herbology and magic used for all sorts of experimentation. But the area I chose had a lock and we now have a secure area.”

Arriving at a large steel door, Shani produced a key from her pocket. “We’ll only be a few moments here Geralt, I need help to find a book.” She opened the door and led him inside.

“Books aren’t really my strength, Shani.” Geralt offered as he followed her. The room had been a laboratory for human or animal experimentation. Long examination tables, distilleries and shelves crammed with jars and containers set his mind to wander. The elves held this place before humans settled in Oxenfurt. His pushed aside thoughts of the past and speculations as Shani revealed the armorer’s body.

In the softer light of laboratory, Geralt noticed a strange twinkle from the torch light. Tiny particles winked as the living light oscillated. The airflow teased the torches to bend and move with each breath. This movement revealed the presence of some substance.  “Shani, is it a powder or a residue?”

She covered the body once again, “the book I’m searching for may have the answer, Geralt. This is a guess now, not at all what I prefer to do. It’s a powdered accelerant. This is where the strangeness of . . .well, everything comes into play. I’ve seen it before.” Shani led Geralt back through the passageways, explaining the history of the large volume of magic information and how it came to be in the care of the academy.

Geralt reached out to Shani, “The cover -  is it a deep green and the book hums when you touch it?”

“I don’t know, I can’t find it,” she explained, continuing up the stairs, “I’m hoping you can. I want to ask you one of those questions, Geralt; a type of question where you would tend to growl and ignore me.”

“Fine, I promise not to–as you said- growl and ignore you.” Geralt said.

 Opening the library doors, she led him to a small table. “Sit please, we’ll look for the book in a few minutes.” Geralt removed his harness and laid it across the table.  A nervous chuckle and feigned smile alerted Geralt to Shani’s apprehension. She wrung her hands and did not meet his eyes. Shani jumped as he rested his hands on hers.

“Hey, it’s all right,” he tilted his head down to meet her eyes, “ask me.”

A loud exhale and a few whispered words of encouragement muttered under her breath allowed Shani to look up at Geralt. “How well do you _really_ know Yennefer?”

_Yen . . . Yennefer. Most would never believe me if they knew the real story. We met in prison, she was a prisoner and I was there because I could not say no to a little girl with dark hair and sad grey eyes. Her father fought against the guards when they tried to raid his herbalist shop._

_Kill a prisoner, loot the body. That was the first war. The Nilfgaardians preferred to profit more than kill during the Second War of the Realms. The second war ignited the desire to amass wealth for every soldier whenever profitable–take a prisoner and hold them for ransom and line your pockets._

_The little girl found the four of us; Roche, Dijkstra, Zoltan and me at a tavern one night. Roche had some big operation he and Dijkstra were planning and the area was part of a reconnaissance mission. She couldn’t have been over six or seven years old, I watched her stumble in, cold and hungry. I’d prepared to confront anyone who tried to turn the child out, but I watched as she climbed onto a stool and waited. The barkeep laid out food and milk for her and smiled. Within a few minutes, an older woman pulled the child into her arms._

_I discovered the story through a few bills and a little persuasion. Annetka had been missing for three days. When the Nilfgaardians raided the town, her father refused to empty his medicinal stores to the army and in response they’d taken him prisoner. When I returned to the table, the others laughed and told me I’d grown soft._

_“The mighty witcher, felled by a young lass with a sad tale,” Zoltan teased._

_Roche failed to see the humor in the situation. “The child is homeless and fatherless thanks to those dogs, we can fix this.” Roche checked his sidearm and returned it to his hip. “I vote yes.”_

_“We’re not voting on anything, Roche.” Shaking his head, Geralt stood and addressed them both, “let me talk to the girl, Roche is ready to leap in gun at the ready and Zoltan  - you’re just scary.” Geralt winked and walked away._

_The group laughed at Geralt’s slight. If given the chance, the party would degenerate into insults and trash talk. The three remaining men returned to their drinks. Zoltan scoffed, “so, I’m scary but a man with white hair and yellow eyes carrying two swords is a child’s dream.”_

_Annetka took in the sight of the man with the white hair. She sat sideways on the chair, knees to chest hugging herself. Geralt tried to use kind words and a soft voice to soothe her.  He offered his help to bring her father home to her. At the mention of her father she faced the witcher and blinked several times. “Are those real eyes?”_

_Geralt nodded, “They are very real, Annetka. What do others call you . . .Anya, Anna?”_

_“Anna,” she replied, “does that hurt?” She pointed to Geralt’s scar._

_The scar, a souvenir from a cockatrice was often the source of speculation by others. Before the third war the Continent supported monsters of all kinds. Hunt and Frost influenced these creatures and set them to attack the cities and towns. Over the course of the second war, witchers and the armies culled the inhabited lands of creatures and monsters._

_“Not any more, Anna. I don’t notice it’s there until someone reminds me,” Geralt explained. Anna inched closer to the edge of her chair. He hoped the change in posture meant Anna would trust him._

_The little girl looked around the room and leaned in towards Geralt. Cupping her hands over her mouth he understood. She wanted to whisper to him. He turned his head to give her his ear and waited._

_“You’re a witcher, aren’t you?”_

_Geralt nodded._

_“Bring back my papa,” she whispered._

_Geralt nodded again._

_Despite the warnings from Roche and Dijkstra, Geralt’s plan to break into Berrant’s prison would be carried out by him alone. Roche cautioned Geralt; raids on several Nilfgaardian prisons loomed in the almost immediate future. Geralt stole infantry fatigues from a Nilfgaardian soldier and set out to Berrant.  No one would miss the herbalist once Geralt retrieved him; the man had no one to pay the ransom and without help he would die in prison._

_Geralt, dressed in Nilfgaardian fatigues, walked in the front door without so much as a second glance. Finding the right cell would be the challenge. The air; stale and stagnant did nothing for Geralt to separate the scents floating though the enclosed space. Hidden in shadow he inhaled seeking some clue to the herbalist’s location._

_Geralt guessed that a lifetime of medicinal herbs, soaps and scents would linger on the man in some form. Moving floor by floor, Geralt checked the prison logs for dates of incarceration, location, anything to point him toward Anna’s father. A search of each floor yielded nothing, no sign of Anna’s father existed. Most prisoners were Redanian soldiers and a few, dressed in Nilfgaardian uniforms Geralt assumed were captured deserters._

_It was on the fourth level a scent caught his attention. Floral, fruit and something else. Geralt stepped towards the scent and his sense were jolted as the medallion around his neck buzzed._ Someone is packing quite a lot of power down here _, he thought.  He followed the intensifying scent and the increasing hum of his medallion to a torch lit cell._

_At twice the size of the other cells, this looked like someone’s living quarters. Bookcases lined the walls, a large sled like bed rested in the back center of the area, with a worktable and alchemical workbench nearby. A changing screen and several trunks sat in the far corner._

_A dramatic and very annoyed sigh, alerted him to the woman sitting in the opposite corner from him. “You do know it's rude to stare, don’t you?” Her voice, melodic and refined demanded a reply. “Are you just going to stand there without introducing yourself? As you wish.”_

_Geralt felt the shift in the area around him as the woman primed a magic spell. A quick Quen sign and she leapt to her feet. “You’re a witcher in service to Emhyr?”_

_He did not reply as she approached the bars. Her dark raven locks framed her delicate face, she grinned at his obvious appraisal of her appearance, but it was the chaos and magic churning in her violet eyes that caught him unaware. “Forgive me, but if you intend to stare at me thus, you might give me your name.”_

Get it together _, he chided himself,_ a pretty face and a little magic and you’re falling all over yourself.

_“Geralt,” he replied, offering nothing more._

_“How special you must be to have but a single name, Geralt.” She kept her eyes locked firm on his, “White Wolf,” she grinned. “I have heard of you, witcher.”_

_He hummed in response; his voice dropped lower, moving closer to her, the scent of her perfume writing itself forever into his memory. “Is that right?”_

_She threw her head back, letting a light laugh escape as her hand moved to her waist. She reached through the bars to touch his face, never glancing away. “Well, White Wolf, what will you do now?”_

_“I haven’t decided. Maybe if I knew your name,” he leaned closer, and the tip of his tongue ran along his bottom lip, “maybe then.”  As arousing as this whole exchange was for him, he had to find the herbalist._

_“Yennefer, my name is Yennefer.”_

_He knew the name.   Yennefer of Vengerberg, Sorceress. Dijkstra’s intelligence suggested she was more pet than guest of Emhyr. “Emhyr’s pet sorceress? Sorry, not interested.”_

_Geralt’s medallion thrummed as an impossible wind whipped through the cells. He’d pissed her off.  Drawing his Quen sign in time, Geralt waited for the strike; but when there was no impact from her magic, he touched the bars out of curiosity. Where cold steel was expected his hand found warming metal as if it absorbed the strength of her attack.  “Dimeritium bars, blocks magic.”_

_Seething she glared at him.  “Yes, interesting that the Emperor’s magical whore would be kept in a cell where she cannot use her magic, isn’t it? How little you know, Geralt.” She dropped into a chair. “I am no villain. Emhyr’s generals demanded I devise a spell to illuminate targets for their bombers. Not military targets, Geralt - schools, hospitals, farms,” she stood continuing to shake her head to clear the images flashing through her mind, “because of my refusal you can see my reward.” Yennefer gestured around her cell. “Please, I will tell you whatever you wish to know of his plans, but I cannot leave here without help.”_

_If Yennefer was telling the truth, her intelligence could be what Roche needed to launch a counter offensive.  Her eyes, hopeful she searched his face for the answer she wanted. “Geralt, will you help me?”_

_He could do it, rescue both.  All he had to do was find Anna’s father and come back for Yennefer. “Douse everything, keep it dark in here.  I’ll come back for you. The man I search for, his little girl waits for him.”_

_“A witcher with a heart, how refreshing.” Yennefer put out every light and candle. He eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness as an alarm squawked from the outer halls. “Hurry, Geralt.”_

_Alarms shrieked from every floor, but he was sure his presence had been undetected. Trying to find his way through the chaos of shouting and fleeing soldiers, he realized the prison was under attack. Geralt’s ears picked up a high-pitched whistle above the bedlam. The pitch steadily lowered until the intensifying whine of an air raid siren drowned out all other noises. The first resonant collision with the stone walls shook loose joints in the walls and ceiling. Geralt heard separation in the stone and wood above him. Yennefer. If he left her–she would not survive. “Dammit. I’ll have to free her first and then get as many out as I can.” Geralt turned and ran down to the fourth level. Each cell proved empty._

_When he reached Yennefer’s cell he tried to shake it loose. A small dagger sliced his hand, and another pierced his side.  “Yennefer, stop!” Geralt struggled to pull the dagger from his side dropping it to the ground. “I’m trying to get you out of here.”_

_“Geralt!  I thought you were one of the guards. Forgive me; it’s fortunate I’m not very accurate with these at all.” Yennefer apologized. The daggers, slipped to her during her prison transport, were meant  for use in times of desperation ._

_Geralt’s wounds were superficial, he’d heal by morning. “Felt accurate to me.” He pulled on the cell door knowing it wouldn’t open._

_“Yes, well I apologize. The guard captain has the keys.” Yennefer offered._

_He wouldn’t be able to find the guard in all the confusion. “There isn’t time.” Geralt scoured the walls for any sign of weakness.  The walls between the cells might be their best chance. “Yennefer, can you direct a strong burst of magic at the walls between the cells?”_

_She understood what Geralt planned. If she could break through to the empty cell, she could leave through the opening. “I will try, but the bars–“_

_“Do what you can, Yen,” the way his voice caressed her name inspired her. She called out the incantation and the blast that resulted cracked the stones.  “Now, move to the other side.”  Geralt drew an Aard sign, and the wall crumbled enough for Yennefer to slip through to him.  Clasping her hand, the two ran up the stairs._

_Piles of stones and rubble littered the walkways. Any they came across lay dead. “No one lives, we cannot linger.”  Yennefer’s voice whilecalm and measured, she tugged and pulled Geralt towards the exit._

_Geralt would fail to retrieve the little girl’s father if he left now.  “Anna’s father could be anywhere.“  The shouts of Temerian troops and calls to cease fire alerted him to the end of the bombardment.  “Go. If you’re discovered here. . .” Geralt didn’t want to think about what Roche and Dijkstra might consider with Yennefer as a prisoner._

_“The Alchemy Inn in Oxenfurt in two days and be prepared to travel. We have unfinished business.”_

 Defending Yennefer against rumors, accusations and a general dislike became second nature to Geralt. Shani had never questioned him about Yennefer, but he fell into defense without thinking, “Shani, Yennefer is not responsible for the armorer.”  

She stood and led him towards the inner library, “I’m not positive Geralt, but there is one thing-“

The shrill ring of the library phone interrupted Shani. “Give me a minute,“ she hurried to the main desk and picked up the phone. Geralt ‘s medallion told him the book she sought was in the library, he’d need to search to find it. He heard her replace the receiver. “Geralt! A body in the Warehouse District!” Swift steps and quick hands led Shani out to the main entrance.

Roach waited, engine revving. Geralt hopped on first, leaving room for Shani to climb behind him. She hesitated. “We’re wasting time, Shani.”  Roach roared in impatience. “I won’t bite, let’s go.”

 She climbed on behind him.  Geralt turned his head to the right to talk with her, “hold on–otherwise you’ll fall.” She nodded into his back and held tight. 

 “Warehouse District.“ Roach accelerated without his rider’s help, his rear tire smoking until Geralt gave the word. “Go.”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Shani examine the body discovered in the Warehouse district with Olgierd's help. When Dandelion's club falls under magical attack, Geralt must race to help his friends.

Ch. 9

Kaer Trolde, Ard Skellige

Somewhere deep in the lower floors of Kaer Trolde, Yennefer sank into an overstuffed chair. A few muttered words and the fireplace lit without effort.  Rubbing her temples, she tried to ignore the chill in the air and growing weakness pulling in her into sleep.  “It’s too much, I must slow down.”

A knock on the door forced Yennefer to sit up. “Come in,” she called out, surprised at how feeble her voice sounded. In most situations, Yennefer would have told the caller to return another time; here, only Cerys or her brother Hjalmar would venture to seek her out at this hour.

“It’s Cerys, Yennefer.” Cerys an Craite: the undisputed queen of Ard Skellige. All the clans on the Iles answered to her. The only woman ever to lead the clans, Ard Skellige prospered under her guidance. Commerce and shipping as well as building materials all originating in the Iles fell under her control. Geralt had helped her take her place; her logical and level head proved better suited to keep the clans from killing one another and to make the businesses and trades prosper. Hjalmar, in contrast, preferred a physical approach to settling disputes, often ending in the destruction of property. Cerys understood the value of partnerships. She’d negotiated a contract with Sigismund Dijkstra stretching his reach into the Iles and affording her safe lines of trade under his protection.

Yennefer forced a pleasant smile onto her face and stood, using the chair as support. “You’re wandering about quite late, how can I help?”

A momentary confusion passed over Cerys’ face; she lifted her brows and paused. “I’m answering your message,” her thick brogue delivering her words, “you look dead tired, perhaps you’ve forgotten?” Cerys entered the room and shivered despite her fur lined vest and heavy leather coat, “Yennefer, you should consider taking one of the guest rooms and not insist on this drafty cellar laboratory. I can have something refitted to your liking?”

“The accommodations are fine for my purposes, I don’t wish to trouble you,” the sorceress replied.

Cerys held out her arms to Yennefer, a drape of heavy fabric lay across her arms. "This is your replacement cloak, I’ve never known you to leave any sign of yourself behind Yennefer and I’m wondering if a little rest might be in order? This one, I’m afraid will not have your crystal on it, I didn’t have one for it to be added. When I received your message about the missing cloak, I was able to have the velvet delivered right away to the tailoring shop. It’s never a trouble for them, not with the additional sewing machines from Novigrad.”

Yennefer stared through Cerys. She did not recall the loss of her cloak. It was far too impractical, and she preferred to wear the leather jacket Geralt had given her. “Thank you Cerys, I will be more careful.” Accepting the delivery, Yennefer revealed nothing to Cerys, “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, I do think a rest would be beneficial. I’ll be traveling to Oxenfurt in the morning, but for now I will rest.”

The conversation between them remained light and amicable until Cerys left Yennefer to her rest. She labored around her room gathering items into several suitcases.  “I can’t wait as I’d hoped. I’m sorry, Geralt,” she said to the empty room before activating a portal and stepping through.

_____________

Oxenfurt Academy

Shani and Geralt met during the Second War when a reconnaissance mission left him in injured in Redanian territory. He stumbled into a Redanian hospital for care into Shani; knowing what he was at first glance, she did not turn him in and they’d been friends since.  She’d enlisted his help on several of her own missions. Geralt excelled at the impossible. Their friendship had not changed from year to year, and Shani appreciated Geralt’s trust in her. She admired his dedication to helping others while hiding behind a mask of indifference. Shani read the pain and confusion on his face, eyes wide, his hands raked through his hair and he sighed.

“Something wrong?” Shani wasn’t sure she wanted to hear whatever troubled Geralt, it couldn’t be good.

“Let me check the body first, and then you can have it brought to your lab. See if you can reach Olgierd at the Alchemy, he’ll keep this quiet,” Geralt directed.

The heavy velvet cloak covering the body reminded him of the one Yennefer used to wear; it didn’t suit her and Geralt had given her a leather jacket to replace the antiquated cloak. _It’s not hers_ , he insisted as more silent words affirmed the cloak a coincidence. Peeling back the hood draped near the victim’s head, Geralt searched for the clasp.

 _Yen wouldn’t turn_. Dijkstra’s pictures burned in his mind _. It’s not hers_ , a final declaration before he saw it; the clasp–a silver circle within it a five-pointed star surrounded by circles and intricate designs. _Dammit, Yen_. Geralt took a quick look around to find no one paying attention to his actions and in one swift motion, used a small knife to cut the clasp away. Once safe in his pocket, Geralt removed the cloak to reveal the body.

Shani’s hurried footfalls alerted Geralt to her return. “Olgierd and the others are on the way, no one can find any city guards at all, what is happening?”

“I don’t know. Somehow, they’ve all pulled out of the city but left vehicles behind. No, we’d have seen them on the road from Novigrad. When the Immortals arrive, have Olgierd send a few to scout the docks and look for ships and the others to go south to the old barracks.” He scooted around to face the victim.

“Shame. She’s young, mid-twenties.”  Geralt inspected her face. “Eyes wide open, she faced her killer.” A strange odor, old yet familiar assailed his nostrils. Using his foot, he jostled her hand. “Black burns, chemical maybe? I know that smell, I can’t place it.” Geralt stepped aside to think. He muttered aloud to himself. “Some kind of potion, poison or . . . _venom_.”

Shani crouched down, “The gloves, what about these-“

“Don’t touch them!”  He lunged towards her hands outstretched. Geralt’s ferocity startled her, sending Shani scuttling backwards. “Shani, look at me, did you touch the gloves?” She stared, unable to answer. “Answer me!”

A timid shake of her head revealed his harsh words and Geralt sighed. “Sorry, there’s venom on the gloves, don’t go near them. Your victim was poisoned. Venomous Arachas, best guess.”  He pointed to her hands. "The gloves, they’re covered in raised points, that’s how the venom entered her body, through tiny pinpricks. The venom was highly concentrated, not just a trace.”

Shani’s cautious steps brought her around to where Geralt stood. Her body sagged in recognition. “Danuska–Dana, an alchemy student at the Academy. She’d had some difficulties with her projects; we’d talked about a week or so about the dangers of her experiments.”

Geralt continued his examination, “what kind of experiments?”

Shani reflected on her conversation to find the answers Geralt sought. “Complex compounds, most proved caustic, even poisonous. The other students called her Princess Poison. She didn’t care. Dana tried to extend the life of cloth and hide, her father was a tanner. I recall he passed recently and I believe it troubled her.”

A soft grunt revealed Geralt understood, but his mind focused on the evidence before him. “Did the Academy keep Arachas venom?”  He tried to determine if the young woman’s death tied to Ciri or if they’d stumbled onto a more personal attack; the lack of a charcoal written note suggested a random death.

Geralt heard the low roar of multiple engines signaling Olgierd’s arrival. A swift motion covered the body with the dark cloak obscuring the body from the curious. “Time for the freak show,” Geralt chuckled as the Immortals rolled to a halt.

Shani’s did not mask her surprise, “I thought you were friends, does he know you call them the ‘freak show’?”

He winked, “that’s tame. He’s usually worse . . . fair warning.”

Geralt removed his coat and handed it to her, “if he takes a swing at me, ignore it.”

Shani stared mouth agape, “wait . . . if he takes a swing at you? Geralt!”

Boots scuffed the ground as Olgierd approached. “Bloody hell, witcher. You really are an ill omen. Fucking monsters in the woods, bodies in the cities and the whole bloody army up and disappears. I ought to take you out right here and now before the milk sours and the livestock fly.”

“You’re thinking of witches–was never much for milk and throwing livestock is more up your crew’s alley.” He leaned closer to Olgierd and explained the situation while the crew laughed. Message delivered, Olgierd nodded once.

Shaking her head Shani glanced down at the body lying in the street, “Geralt, we really do not have time for this.”

Adela swung her leg around her bike and sauntered towards Geralt. “Oy, Puss peepers, yer tart’s a little nervous. Time for an upgrade!” More laughter broke out.

Olgierd pivoted around Geralt to stare into Adela’s face. “Shut it. Get on that pig of yours and take two with you down to the docks. Look for any sign of the guards.”

“Hog! Come on, boss it’s a hog not a pig.” Adela whined.

He pointed at her ride. “When you disrespect the lady, it is what I say it is. Now apologize and go.” She backed up and mumbled an apology to Shani before rushing to leave. Geralt listened as Olgierd directed the others to ride south to the old barracks.

Geralt had returned to Shani’s side and collected his coat. Turning away from the others, he muttered to her, “Olgierd defending your honor, huh. Interesting.”

“Don’t start, Geralt.  What about Dana? How will I examine her?”  Shani glanced toward the covered body, worried about the venom.

“It takes about twelve hours to dissipate, lose potency. You’ll be fine by sunrise, the gloves too, unless you want them destroyed.” Geralt offered.  Shani agreed the envenomed gloves should be destroyed, if she remembered her poisons, even the smallest amount was fatal to all except witchers.  Geralt kicked them away from the body and out into the street. An Ignii sign drawn, the toxic gloves twisted and snarled as the hide blackened in the grasp of flames.

Olgierd joined them after the last of his gang departed. “Apologies for Adela, Shani, she’s a bit rough around the edges. Her words weren’t meant to disrespect you, but she shouldn’t have said it at all.”

The witcher rolled his eyes. “Later. Tell me you have a truck hidden somewhere, I’ll need a transport to clear the street.”

“No, but I have a good idea where one might be,” Olgierd stroked his beard, “flat, small, nothing too flashy? Be right back.”

Shani stepped forward, “Wait, where are you going?”

He turned back and grinned raising his eyebrows once. “Shopping!” He exclaimed before jumping on to his bike and riding deeper into town. 

Geralt fished in his pocked his warm hands finding the cool metal of the clasp.

_Geralt didn’t bother to check for signs of life, his sword separated Imlerith’s head from his body. He wasn’t coming back._

_Yennefer’s body lay unmoving. Cursing his failure to protect her, his legs could not move fast enough to her side._

_Ciri skidded as her boots hit the ice. “No!” She slipped again in an attempt to reach them._

_Geralt forced the words to comfort Ciri. “Yen’s breathing, it’ll be all right. I’ll take her down the mountain.” His words were as much for himself as for Ciri. Yennefer breathed and her heart beat strong in her chest; she’d taken on a full blast of magic in his place. “Ciri, I promise, Yennefer will be fine.”_

_Yennefer recovered within hours and the three returned to Kaer Trolde to rest before Geralt resumed his search for Hunt._

Yennefer’s tenacity matched his own. She would never bend to another’s will but twist her actions to give the appearance of compliance.  Even if he could talk with her in private, she excelled at misleading answers and dodging straight questions. Avoiding her anger could prove difficult. He’d been on the receiving end of her fury during several arguments; getting sucked into a portal and dumped into the icy waters near Undvik several times when he pissed her off.

A full-throated growl of a truck and the grind of gears brought Geralt back to the task before him. Another painful twisted metallic clatter forced Geralt’s eyes closed. “I’ll be amazed if there’s a transmission left for the return.”  Shani covered her ears as a screech brought the truck around the corner.

A final grating clash brought the vehicle to a halt. Sticking his head out the window, Olgierd called out, “sorry about that, she’s military, so I don’t give a rat’s arse. The damn gears make little sense.” The pained expressions on Geralt and Shani didn’t faze Olgierd. “I brought the truck in one piece . . . more or less.”

The urgency of discovering Yennefer’s whereabouts and putting his fears to rest quickened his pace. While Shani and Olgierd continued to banter over the simplicity of the standard transmission, Geralt used caution to lift and carry the victim’s body to the flat bed. He would sit with her to prevent any mishandling of her toxic skin.  Pounding on the side of the truck to grab Shani’s attention, Geralt called for her to drive his hand gripping Yen’s clasp until it cut into his flesh.

Geralt returned to Iorveth’s warning. Betrayal. Yen was in the club when he delivered the message. Even Dijkstra and Philippa defended her.  Dijkstra condemned Roche, not Yennefer. Geralt needed someone he could trust, someone who’s price for help would not involve smuggling, gunrunning or military coups in foreign lands to further their cause. “Nice group of friends there, asshole.”

Olgierd stuck his head through the open ventilation window, lips pursed. “Geralt, you’re worrying the lady. A suggestion? Stop talking out loud–it’s not pleasant.” He winked and shifted back into the cab. 

The Immortals would keep an eye on Oxenfurt and even a few of the smaller villages, their methods harsh, but fair. Geralt appreciated the loyalty from Olgierd extended to his crew. He sighed as a name came into focus. The perfect player in a world long removed from the ancient ways. To think beyond modern trappings and open the doors long closed to those who no longer believed.  The witchers lost the key to that world, trading magic and sorcery for guns and ammunition; their carelessness severing access to the creatures who now slumbered in hidden places to escape the fumes and wastes of progress.

Returning to the academy without incident, Geralt carried the corpse with care leaving Olgierd at the entrance to the catacombs to deter the curious.

“Geralt, there’s no reason for Olgierd to wait. No one will wake before dawn. What if you need help?” Shani preferred Olgierd accompany them, concerned the body might pose a problem for the witcher. 

“Shani. I’ve got this. If Olgierd gets bored, he can practice driving the truck, I think the gears might still work.”  The witcher waited until Shani led them back to the locked laboratory. “I need a favor,” Geralt started, Shani was one of a few who might help him.

She listened as Geralt explained, with a silent nod here and there to confirm she listened.

“Will you help?” He wouldn’t force the issue, others in the Realms could help him if Shani refused.

She stared into Geralt’s face and shook her head. “He will not be happy. If I could share everything I know that might help sway his decision?”

“Do it.” A voice shouting in the distance caught his ear. “That’s Olgierd, Shani.” Locking the door behind them the two raced through the passageways towards the ever-increasing sound of Olgierd shouting for them.

“Damn it all, Geralt.  The phone! Dandelion says the club is under attack!” Olgierd pulled Geralt into the hall. “Come on I’ll follow you.”

The witcher rushed passed them, shouting orders to stay with Shani. Geralt called for Roach and the cycle caught up to his running form and slowed allowing Geralt to sit and the two to take off. “The club, Roach . . .faster!”  Roach’s tires squealed around a corner heading towards Dandelion’s club.

Geralt felt the magic before he pulled up in front of the club. _Portals . . .more than one,_   he guessed pulling his silver sword as he reached the entry. The door swung inward to reveal Dandelion shielding his face from the chaos within the club. Quick assessments of the turmoil within revealed  his guess correct; half a dozen portals roared on the main floor, several more on the stairwells and one near the rear exit  sent spiraling winds through the enclosed space. Zoltan braced himself behind the bar holding a rope tied to Triss’ frame to keep her from harm. The harsh ring of the phone added to the cacophony disrupting Geralt’s focus.

Dandelion shouted at Triss . “He’s here!” 

 Without clarification or glancing in the witcher’s direction, Tris cried out, “Geralt! There are too many! I keep blocking whatever is trying to get through, but I can’t hold it much longer!”

Geralt’s cautious steps brought him to her side; her struggles written on her pained face, sweat filled brow and labored breathing. Geralt would have to take on the intruder.  “Triss, when you’re ready, pull back and get behind the bar.”

“All right,” she yelled. Her body snapped backwards from releasing the binding magic.  The phone atop the bar rang without end.

“Dandelion! Take it off the fucking hook or answer it!” Geralt needed to concentrate, almost all the portals were ghosts, incomplete.  He had to find the right one; whatever conjured these possessed strong magic.  The phone stopped ringing, giving Geralt a chance to target each opening. The violent hum from his medallion warned him again about the magic pouring out of the portal.  He circled around the first as it and several others winked dissolved.  Free of the binding magic, electrical discharges forked outward striking at random as they dissipated. 

“Shit. Not good.” Geralt drew a Quen sign in time to block the incoming strike. “This isn’t right. Portals don’t discharge energy like this.”  With each dissolution, the strikes intensified until two portals remained.  The clanging ring of the phone cut straight to Geralt’s nerves. “Answer the fucking phone!”

Geralt circled around the two remaining portals, renewing his Quen sign while a frantic conversation took place to his left. 

Dandelion held the receiver away from his mouth. “Geralt! Cerys says Yennefer’s laboratory is burning! They’ve put it out, but she’s disappeared!”

Geralt looked to Triss, her eyes wide in horror mouth covered in a silent scream.  Before Triss could move, Geralt understood _Yen is in danger_. _The portals–it’s Yen, trying to get through but from where?_ A burst of violet flame punctured the air from the second portal.  “It’s Yen; I’m going in after her!” 

Despite the shouting of his companions, he’d have to risk it. _I’m not about to lose her_ , he insisted, _not now_.  Before he could enter, a form took shape, a woman dressed in black; head turned behind her and mid run burst through the portal as another stream of flame chased her. _The discharges were attacks directed at her._  Geralt positioned himself in her path and grabbed her turning her around to shield her from any further harm.

He’d never seen fear in her eyes. Yennefer did not admit to fear.  She stared up at him, eyes wide, her breathing so erratic, he risked her ire and drew an Axii sign to calm her - unsure if it would even work.  Keeping his voice even, he tried to talk with her. “I’ve got you. You’re all right, Yen. Who did this? ”

Violent shaking and trembling from Yennefer disturbed him even more. She opened her mouth and two simple words fell from her lips before she collapsed in his arms.  "I'm sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading, tell me what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt waits at Yennefer's side, hoping to learn what happened to her. During his vigil, another witcher reaches out to Geralt for help. The body of the boatmaker's son has been discovered at the boatyard. The appearance of another corpse concerns Geralt, but the mention of Ciri by Relicts long thought gone, forces Geralt to leave Oxenfurt and travel to Velen.

Ch. 10

Nilfgaard, Port city of Baccala, Four years prior

Yennefer pulled her cloak tight around her body; the choice of meeting place proved wretched–from the smell of rotting fish to drunken dockworkers and lingering prostitutes.  The chill in the morning air aggravated her irritated nerves. The note she clutched in her gloved hand posed a threat to her subterfuge. _If someone has indeed discovered I am here, the danger is too great to remain._ She knew the words by memory, scratched in block letters on plain brown paper.

_I’ve been watching you. East side docks, three in the morning. Tell no one._

The advantage to her hiding place - the docks, the footpaths, everything converged where she could take note of those who passed.  At half past three, the petrol trucks would arrive and wait for loading obscuring her meeting from the west side.  Her mystery guest possessed this knowledge. “Making him a dangerous adversary,” she murmured.

Yennefer heard the intake of breath behind her far too late to react. A large hand covered her mouth, and another restrained her arms. She caught a flash of white light before her eyes and then collapsed.

Opening her eyes, Yennefer surroundings seemed familiar. She lay on a large divan, surrounded by pillows of all shapes. The low levels of light revealed a room filled with oil lamps instead of electric lights. Ornate lead-lined lamp shades flickered projecting jeweled tones against the stark white walls. A familiar scent clung to the pillows. _Lilacs . . . my perfume. This is my apartment._   Yennefer listened to the sounds within her rooms.  Nothing breaking, no shuffling of papers.  She could discern no sounds of a search.  A loud cough from the foyer moved her into action. Returning to her seat, she steadied herself and prepared.  

Approaching footsteps masked ambient sounds as her assailant neared the sitting room. The gradual groan of the floorboards determined her target. No chance to aim, she fired off a single bolt of lightning. A heavy thud and fracturing glass skittered across the floor.  Rising to her feet, surprise carried her back several steps.  Geralt stood in the entryway, his clothes splattered with droplets of wine. A fractured bottle had fallen on the wood floor its contents escaped and pooled near his boots.  The wineglasses he had carried splintered upon impact.

Geralt’s sheepish smile and apologetic eyes did nothing to calm her anger.   “Damn. I knew I should have brought more than one bottle.”  Geralt shrugged watching the burgundy stain spread across the hardwood floor. “Didn’t think you’d attack, Yen. Sorry about the floor.”

Yennefer’s fierce glare fixed on him.  “Geralt! What possessed you? Have you gone mad? You kidnapped me in a darkened alley and brought me back to my apartment?”

He shrugged again. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” 

Yennefer stared as he bent to pick up the pieces of the wine bottle and glasses. His hair was longer than she remembered, tied back with a black ribbon. “A black hair tie is that common wear for a kidnapping?” she teased him, knowing he’d planned this thinking himself clever and romantic. She gathered a waste bin and joined him. “Careful, you don’t want to–ouch! Cut your hand,” she sighed wiping the drop of blood from her finger.

Placing the glass in the proffered bin, he wiped his hands on his pants. “Here, let me see it.” Geralt offered his hand to her.

“I’m fine. Just finish here.” Yennefer attempted to stand and a strong yet gentle hand held hers.

“Let . . . me . . . see.” Running his finger along hers, he felt the sharp edge of a sliver. A light wince from her confirmed it. Alternating light strokes and pressure Geralt’s disciplined touch released the shard from her skin.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “I’m still cross, just so you know. You can let go of my hand now, Geralt.” Yennefer tried to pull away, but Geralt did not release her. “I’m a little out of sorts; you might allow me some time.”

Geralt helped Yennefer to the large divan and went about clearing the mess. “You don’t have to do that.”

“No, I don’t,” His eyes met hers before he smiled.

“Aren’t _you_ full of surprises,” Yennefer teased, “I thought you were supposed to be with the boys in White Orchard?”

“Supposed to be.” He carried the evidence of the wine mishap back to her kitchen.

“Geralt, pretending to have such a limited vocabulary is a bit tiresome. Would you please talk with me?”  Responding to her plea, the witcher returned to the sitting room and motioned for her to allow him room.

Seated on the divan, he offered his hand, “come on and sit with me. We both get what we want. I get to hold you and you get boring details of what I am supposed to be doing but decided not to in favor of allegedly kidnapping you.”

“Allegedly?” She settled back against his chest. “How did you manage to sneak away?”

Geralt cleared his throat.

“Geralt, you know what happens if you’re discovered missing?” Yennefer worried for his safety.

He sighed, “Yen, you worry too much. Nothing happens. I’m a witcher not a soldier.”

She wriggled free and faced him. “Why are you here?”

“I missed you,” he offered, attempting to move closer to her.

“You’re incorrigible.” The hint of a smile on her face, Yennefer met his probing eyes. “I know that look. You’ve already carried me upstairs in your head.”

Geralt leaned closer, “something like that.” 

The sudden shift in the room disturbed her.  “Did you feel that?” She let go of Geralt’s hand, leaving him on the stairs. “Geralt, did you hear me?”  She turned back to an empty room.  “Geralt?” Yennefer called out to him.

“I’m right here, Yen.” His reassuring voice answered her from further into the apartment. A thin layer of ice grew from the wine stain spreading out its crystals in tendrils encroaching on anything within reach. 

 _This is a dream_ , she warned herself, a _memory taken and warped_. _Geralt stayed in Baccala until Zoltan came looking for him. This never happened. I need to wake._

_____________

Triss’ seat near the door afforded her a view of the club floor and the hall to the private rooms.  She’d sat lost in her thoughts since Geralt carried Yennefer upstairs.  Yennefer had depleted much of her energy in her escape, but Triss tried to put words to her thoughts. The portal, the fire in Skellige, the magic attacks, Yennefer had found some truth and someone of equal power had come close to beating her.

Trudging up the stairs, Zoltan huffed with each step. She smiled at him, but his shifting eyes responded with a forced scowl. “Not now, Triss. Take care of the lady, there’s too much happening for Geralt te be mooning over her bedside.”

A gentle wave of her hand added to her cautious warning. “I wouldn’t go in there, Zoltan.”

“You wouldn’t,” he stated straightening his jacket, “I would.”

She gestured towards the door, but added one final warning, “I tried to stop you, remember that.”

“Ach, ye worry too much.” Zoltan waved her concern away entering the room.

Zoltan stepped inside the room to the sound of gun cocking. Staring at the business end of a dark metal colt snub-nosed revolver, he pulled his hands up. “Bloody hell, Witcher, it’s me!”  Geralt stared at his friend. Within seconds, Geralt disengaged the hammer and returned the gun to its resting place under his shirt. “I thought you didn’t carry a gun.”

“I lied,” his admission loud enough for the room, but his attention remained fixed on the sleeping sorceress.   “Sorry about that, need something?”

The dwarf had known both of them for so long, he understood why the witcher couldn’t leave her side, but the man waiting on the phone demanded it. “Not me, it’s Eskel. He’s on the line for you. Said he caught a rodent who claimed he was hunting down a lead about you.”

“Iorveth, probably . . . fine. Give me a minute.” He stroked Yennefer’s hand and placed it on the mattress. “I’ll be downstairs, Yen.“ Still sleeping thanks to Triss, Yennefer did not reply.

A quick word to Triss as Geralt exited the room sent her inside. He didn’t want Yen alone when she woke. 

Geralt hurried down the stairs and turned into Dandelion’s office. “I’ll take it in here, thanks.”

“Yes, yer Lordship.” Zoltan scoffed and returned to the bar. Lifting the handset, Geralt’s gruff voice ordered Zoltan to hang up. “He’s in a foul one. Surprise that.”

Geralt and Eskel lost touch after Vesemir’s death. Eskel watched over Velen. The mysterious death of Philip Strenger had called for a witcher to investigate as no authority wanted to claim rights to Velen and the surrounding area–No Man’s Land.  Even now, with legends and curses relegated to drunken tales in darkened taverns–Velen remained cursed. Strenger allowed Emhyr var Emreis to seize control without argument, all for the promise of perceived autonomy.

What no one knew is Strenger’s wife Anna, made a dark deal with an ancient evil condemning her family in this life. 

Far too many years to count into the past, The Conjunction of the Spheres changed the Realms forever. A catastrophic collision of multiple parallel worlds forced the Elder races, humans and monsters into a single tragic existence. Magic thrived in this new creation, but the existence of the damned and the deadly called for a new warrior–the Witcher. Born of magic and alchemy this warrior stood against the evil threats from creature or man. 

The time of witchers and sorceresses waned as pollution and waste overshadowed the troubles of the past. Evil slept and waited for its chances. Anna Strenger woke such a power.  When the call for a witcher could not find Geralt, Eskel took the contract.

Geralt listened as Eskel skimmed through his story. “Listen, Eskel, I’m not getting all this, you’re going too fast.” He spoke into the receiver in a slow and even cadence in hopes Eskel would match him.

“The story isn’t important.“ Eskel continued, “the point is the last old witch.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Geralt, she mentioned Ciri–not exactly by name, but I’m sure it’s her.”

The witcher’s fingernails dug into the wood-topped desk.  “Tell me.”

“The boatmaker’s son, lined his pockets but not the boat - the Lion Cub she swims but does not drown. Not so the shifty son.” Eskel finished the recitation to silence. “Geralt? Hey . . . Wolf–you still there?”

The idea some old witches mentioned Ciri, and a boat scratched at his memory.  “Ciri wanted a skiff sent to Skellige, she asked Yen for the funds to order one from Velen. Maybe something wasn’t right with the boat. Can you do me a favor? Check out the boatyard, you know where it is?”

“Already did. Problem is–the man’s dead. He drowned.” Eskel explained.

“Shit, not good.” Geralt tapped the earpiece in his hand before returning to the conversation. “Dead end then.”

“You didn’t let me finish. He drowned in the warehouse without any water. Smelled like Kaer Morhen whenever Yennefer. . .” Eskel’s voice trailed off.

Geralt had to ask. “How long ago was this Eskel?”

A sigh came through the earpiece. “I’ve been working with the Strenger family for months, Wolf. But everything I shared happened in the last twenty-four hours.  The man drowned about six hours ago. I got back from the boatyard and called you.”

“It wasn’t Yen. Something attacked her; she’s been out for longer.” The witcher’s well-honed mind laid out the scenario. “Damn it. The attack on Yen was another diversion.”  Geralt would leave as soon as possible. “I’ll be there by daybreak. Call the yard again and tell them to shut it tight. If I’m right, this is the third victim.”

“Wait, Wolf–third victim? If you’re coming to Velen, meet me at the Crow’s Perch. Seems I somehow own the place.” 

Replacing the receiver, Geralt rolled his shoulders and walked out onto the club floor to find Zoltan waiting for him. “Where we headed?”

“You’re staying here.” Geralt looked towards Dandelion. “Give Shani a call; tell her I’ll be at the Crow’s Perch in Velen.” If Shani fulfilled her promise, she’d need to know where the witcher’s destination.

A feminine cough pulled Geralt’s attention towards the stairs. Yennefer held the railing as she walked down the stairs; her slow and tentative steps revealed her fatigue had not waned. Geralt’s attempt to remain composed failed as he stumbled on the way to the stairs. “Damn it,” he mumbled.

A light laugh met his ears, “I’m fine, and none the worse for wear. I’m unable to recall much before passing through the portal, but it will come with time. Furthermore, I’m going with you to Velen.”

A sharp cut of his hand through the air echoed his words. “No. You and Triss will travel to Skellige.” Geralt concluded, turning back towards Zoltan. The dwarf’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open at Geralt’s boldness. Dandelion cradled his forehead in one hand shaking his head back and forth. No one ever gave Yennefer an order. A suggestion delivered in a polite manner might be considered, but the witcher wasn’t concerned about propriety.

Geralt’s immediate awareness of the room and the mounting tension dimmed as his mind focused on what he deemed far more important. _Someone is trying to frame Yen for these murders. Not going to happen. I need Cerys and her boys to keep watch from a distance. Triss is more than capable of binding the lab to prevent another attack from elsewhere and I’ll have her send Johnny to Velen. I’ll need him if the relicts are waking._ The witcher, so deep his concentration, hadn’t noticed Yennefer standing in front of him.

Looking into his eyes, her brow furrowed for a moment. “I should think to tell you what you can do with your orders, Geralt. However, I’ve never seen you look so troubled. The phone call, is Ciri in Velen?”

Geralt shook his head without answering at first. He was still piecing together what little he knew. Leaning closer to her, he lowered his voice for privacy. “Another death. Drowned without water. The boatyard in Velen where Ciri’s boat was made?”

She narrowed her eyes in thought and looked away. After a moment, she met his eyes again. “Johnny could discover more if there is a trail. If you ride for Velen, I shall send him to you.” The glint in her eye returned along with a smirk. “I suppose I should be touched you’re worried for me.”

The witcher rolled his eyes. “Yen, we should talk.”

Sighing she pushed him towards the bar. “Geralt now is not the time for discussions of affections and feelings. I will return to Skellige with Triss and reach out to Kiera; I believe she’s still pretending to be a fortune teller or herbalist in Velen.”  Yennefer’s logical assessments complete, reached out a cautious hand to his own. “I hear the Crow’s Perch is quite the destination; I could meet you there?”

“Yen,” he said avoiding the desire to honor her request, “be careful. I won’t always be there to catch you.”

Yennefer patted his chest. “I don’t quite believe you, Geralt.”  A slight tilt of her head served as a goodbye, “I’ll send Johnny by sunrise.”

Geralt hummed in agreement, heading towards the door. “Yen?” She turned to face him. “See you.” He exited through the door to find Roach, engine-revving eager to head out on the road.

Shoving supplies into the saddlebags, the motorcycle revved his engine again longer and louder. “Dammit Roach, give me a minute.”

A refined male voice from Geralt’s past talked over the engine. “I believe your mechanical contraption is alerting you to my presence, Geralt. It seems your medallion is unconcerned with my appearance.”

Turning to face the direction of the voice, unfazed by the man before him, Geralt climbed into the seat and pulled on his gloves. “Regis. Took you long enough.”  Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy–a higher vampire of immense strength and even stronger intellect grinned at the admonishment from the witcher.

“Now Geralt, may I remind you to send dear Shani to rattle the bars and disturb my rest falls to you. If _you_ had need of my assistance, _you_ should have contacted me sooner.” Regis strolled around Roach as he spoke. “By your travelling cloak and our cranky metallic friend here, you plan to travel. Will you share the destination or shall I run behind you like a good little monster?”

“I’m headed to the Crow’s Perch in Velen. Regis, I don’t blame you for being pissed. When I saw you last I promised I’d let you rest.” Geralt’s pleading gesture raised Regis’ brow.

“You refer, of course, to leaving me with several gaping holes and a ruined dinner jacket after I intervened to remove you from a private party.” Regis crossed his arms and waited.

The witcher chuckled and then realized his slight. “Sorry. Look, who invites a succubus to a dinner party?”

Regis clasped his hands behind his back, his slicked back gray hair and refined accent maintaining an even tone in spite of his frustration. “Apparently I do and yet you decided she was attacking one of my guests and - what do you call it– _ran her through_.”

“Come on, I’ve apologized, and she lived so no harm done, right?”

At the witcher’s comment the vampire paused, “we seem to have a difference of opinion on what ‘no harm done’ actually means.”

“I don’t want to argue, Regis. I need your help.  I’ve been attacked by creatures that disappeared years ago, bodies are piling up and I’ve learned the Crones walk Crookback Bog once again.”

Regis turned to face Geralt, “You have received confirmation the Ladies of the Wood are awake? Many of the relicts from the leshens to the chorts retreated to slumber during the last war - if they are waking–this is not ideal by any stretch of the imagination.”

Geralt added,  “Regis, the Crones mentioned Ciri, if that isn’t enough–“

Holding up a hand Regis cut Geralt’s response. “Say no more, the relicts are awake and Cirilla is at the center once again. I await you in Velen, my friend.”  His corporeal form dematerialized into wisps of red and black vapor and soared towards the south.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long road to Velen dredges up memories of Ciri in Skellige and the day she left Kaer Morhen for Ellander. Arriving at the Crow's Perch, Eskel explains his encounter with Weavess. The reunion of the two witchers is cut short by the arrival of a very persistent Vernon Roche.

_Ard Skellige Shipyard_

_The witcher bit his bottom lip, hoping to hold back his laughter. Ciri hadn’t found her balance yet. Amused eyes followed her attempt to walk the length of the skiff shifting in mad swoops whenever the boat would rock. “Ciri, take Cerys’ offer. Hjalmar will take you out on a tug. He’ll wait until the end of time if necessary.” Geralt would let her go, but hoped she’d reconsider traveling through the ice-filled waters alone._

_She huffed the hair from her eyes, wobbled as the boat moved again and quickly regained her composure with a broad smile. “I’ve got this, thanks.” She yelped as the wake from a larger boat set her skiff to rock back and forth. Geralt abandoned his promise to leave her be and reached out to steady her. Realizing his mistake, he raised his brow and shrugged as if to apologize._

_Ciri let out a long sigh and smiled steadying herself again with a quiet, “thank you.”_

Roach sped along the road fueled by magic and a desire to reach Velen before the sun rose. Geralt’s mind wandered as the lights of Oxenfurt gave way to open road.

________________  

Somewhere in Velen

“Faster, damn you.” Roche barked out demands on his driver. _Geralt thinks to hide the witch from me. I am sorry my friend, but neither love nor devotion will spare a murderess. Yennefer travels with him, I am sure._

Dandelion’s cryptic words and assertions Geralt traveled alone fueled Roche’s disbelief. He would find her in Velen. Geralt’s destination of the Crow’s Perch left him no doubts they sought privacy. He needed to reach the casino before Geralt and Yennefer. “Cut through the countryside if you must!” Roche tapped his hand against the window as the truck lurched forward picking up speed.

____________________

The Crow’s Perch once served as a stronghold and a residence. After the second war, the Nilfgaardians abandoned the keep and the surrounding hamlet allowing a small group of landowners to assume control and revitalize the palisaded location. A large casino and hotel sat at the rear where the keep once stood, and the hamlet soon boasted exclusive shops and services for those with the means to enjoy such luxuries. Philip Strenger and his family took occupancy with the strict understanding he kept the money flowing.

When the Nilfgaardians invaded at the onset of the third war, Strenger attempted to broker a deal between Emyhr var Emreis and the Temerian landowners. Emyhr, seeing the potential to fund his armies, had the men assassinated.  Strenger and his family could remain in residence providing he channeled the funds to Nilfgaard. The Perch never ceased operations for a single moment.

Philip Strenger had signed over the deed and rights to Crow’s Perch before he died. Eskel would have been fine with his fee, but running a casino and a landlord to the luxury tenants and storefronts hadn’t been part of his plan. When the portal opened inside his office and a godling stepped through, he wondered if the whole affair had been a hoax.

Eskel finished reading the note from Triss Merigold explaining Geralt’s arrival and the reason for the strange creature wandering around his office space. The godling nodded his head and bounced around as he talked. “You will forgive the lady, Witcher Eskel, when she asked that I return to Velen to help Geralt I didn’t want to wait!” Johnny balanced on one foot and then hopped to the other repeating his strange dance around the office space.

“Just Eskel.” He watched as the godling continued to inspect the room. Johnny cleared a space atop the desk and hopped up dangling his feet and grinning in Eskel’s direction.  Annoyed at the creature, Eskel tried to remain polite. Godlings didn’t tolerate bad manners.  “You’re Johnny. I think I remember seeing you with Vesemir.”

More emphatic nodding and giggling from Johnny tested Eskel’s usual reserve. “True, true. I’m a friend. I can help.” Johnny’s dangling feet held his attention leaving Eskel to find a way to keep the godling occupied.

“Johnny,” Eskel knelt in front of the godling, “do you like machines? Can you use tools and fix things?”

“Of course!” Johnny hopped onto his feet and peered into Eskel’s face. “Lead on, Witcher!”

___________

“Should’ve taken a fucking portal,” Geralt grumbled. Roach flew as fast as magic could take him; Velen was only another hour or two away, not a day but Geralt had to find Ciri. Yen was right. The realms fell into chaos and he did nothing but sleep. She was his responsibility, and he failed.

_He woke to Ciri shaking him by the shoulder. “Ciri, go take a nap or practice something and let me sleep.”_

_She scoffed and shook him harder. “Geralt! Get up. I’m ten not five, I don’t take naps. Besides, I cooked!”_

_Geralt opened his eyes to see Ciri grinning standing near the bed with her hands on her hips. “Come on, you sleep too much!” Ciri turned on her heel and bounded down the stairs. Dressing in whatever was on hand, he plodded down the staircases to the kitchen. Vesemir’s wide eyes and subtle shake of his head were confirmation enough; Ciri hadn’t gotten the hang of cooking._

_He sat down moving his head just in time to miss the overloaded plate. “Here you go!” Her enthusiasm over her accomplishment did nothing to help the appearance of whatever she prepared._

_“So, what is this–exactly?” Geralt pushed the grey mass around his plate, he couldn’t be sure what she’d set out to do, but he dug out blueberries, dried meat and something green._

_“It’s eggs!” She chirped, “I cleared out the pantry the way Uncle Vesemir does and there it is!”_

_His ears picked up the whoosh of air and displacement in the outer hall that signaled Yennefer’s arrival. Geralt realized his mistake; he hadn’t told Ciri she was leaving with Yennefer. Faced with the strange concoction on his plate or Yennefer launching into another argument over his convenient forgetfulness–Geralt shoveled a forkful into his mouth._

_Yennefer entered the kitchen, almost knocked backwards from Ciri’s excited proclamation of her cooking skills spied the plate and Geralt’s strained face. “How is breakfast?”_

_“Crunchy,” he said picking out several eggshells._

_Ciri giggled, “I may have let a few slip through.”_

_Geralt hoped Yennefer would have a little patience and give them a little time to breathe._

_“Are you ready, Cirilla? We are expected. Uncle Vesemir and Geralt leave not long after us.” Yennefer looked around the kitchen. “Although they might be delayed cleaning up after your delightful breakfast.”_

_Ciri’s joy disappeared as she looked from Yennefer to Geralt. “Where am I going?” She moved around Yennefer to Geralt’s side. “I’m going with you, right?”_

_He shook his head. “Ciri, Uncle Vesemir and me. . .we can’t teach you how to control your magic. Yennefer can. A friend of mine in Ellander, you remember Nenneke? She’s offered to give you and Yen a place to work.”_

_Ciri shook her head. “No, I want to stay with you.”_

_Geralt met Yennefer’s dismayed eyes. Vesemir disagreed, he believed they could train Ciri well enough, but after a lengthy discussion, Geralt’s decision had been final. Ciri would travel with Yennefer to Ellander. He’d neglected to explain the night before and now faced with Ciri’s growing distress, Geralt would have to disappoint her. “Ciri, you can’t stay, Kaer Morhen is no place to grow up.”_

_Her frown gave way to angry tears batted away with her sleeve as they fell. “You said you wouldn’t send me away. You said.”_

_Closing his eyes, he sighed. He’d meant she wouldn’t be sent away until she was ready, this was different. “You’re right.”_

_She looked up at him, tears falling faster as she tried to speak. “I’ll try harder. Please don’t make me go.”_

_Geralt wasn’t supposed to feel. Witchers shouldn’t care. Dropping to his knees, he hugged her speaking without thinking, “when you need me, I’ll be there. I promise.”_

The glow from the city lights put his arrival within the hour. _When she needed you, you left her for dead, asshole._ Geralt vowed to see her safe. _Whatever that foul crone wants she can have, even if it’s my heart on toast, it’s hers._ His fingers tightened around the leather grips. “Faster, Roach.”  The motorcycle accelerated pushing machine and rider towards Velen.

_____________

Geralt arrived at the guarded entrance on the west side entrance. “I’m here to see Eskel.” The brawny guard brushed aside his sport jacket to reveal his holstered weapon a gesture meant to intimidate. Geralt sneered in return. “See those two swords on my back? I’ll bet your weapon arm I can beat you in a draw. Get Eskel on the phone and save the scare tactics for the tourists.”

The guard entered the small booth throwing backwards glares towards the witcher; Geralt didn’t challenge the man outright, but his crossed arms and intense glare shifted the guard’s attention to the phone.  He turned his back to muffle his conversation. 

 _Amateurs_ , Geralt thought. He could make out Eskel’s parting words - _let the witcher in and stop wasting my time._ The guard unlocked the gate and moved aside without speaking. Crossing the gated walkway, Geralt expected to see Eskel waiting at the entrance. Halfway down the passage, a metal door creaked open to reveal Johnny waving as he jumped up and down.

Geralt bowed his head as he shook it. “Must have driven Yen to distraction, and she sent him earlier than we’d planned.” He raised his hand to acknowledge the godling. “That means he’s probably been getting under Eskel’s skin since he arrived.” Geralt picked up his pace and met Johnny’s smiling face. “Hey Johnny, good to see you.”

The godling waved Geralt in and hurried through the halls. “Come along witcher, you’re expected!”

Johnny burst through a side door, “Witcher Eskel, Witcher Eskel, I’ve found Geralt!”

Geralt and Eskel grew up together in Kaer Morhen, both took the trials at the same age. Eskel could be trusted to keep to the old ways, but had a fondness for long-range rifles and operations with minimal exposure. His face, disfigured by an apprentice years ago, bore a series of deep scars originating above his right eye and crossing his face to the underside of his chin. Only a few knew the truth. The public tale revolved around a freak encounter with a forktail found hiding in a deep cave. 

Geralt smiled and extended his hand. “Good to see you.”

Smiling in return, Eskel offered, “you look like shit, Wolf. Given your age though, it’s understandable.”

“I’m the same age as you, in case you’ve forgotten. Taking this wise guy stuff to heart, aren’t you?” Geralt dropped into the overstuffed office chair. “Your very own casino. What’s next, cigars and limousines, a new girl every night?” Geralt raised a brow, continuing to joke around.

“I’d be taking my cues from you if I did, or are we back to strong willed Sorceresses with a fondness for dark clothing?” Geralt’s pained expression signaled Eskel had won this round of taunting. “Seriously. You can’t stay away from her can you?”

Geralt held up his hands. “No comment. Tell me about the Crones.”

Walking around the large desk, Eskel grabbed a bottle and held it up. “Drink? You may need it.” When Geralt held up a hand in polite refusal, Eskel’s eyes widened and he whistled. “Who are you and what have you done with Geralt?” The glare thrown at Eskel was enough to stop the gentle teasing. “All right, I get it . . . tell you about the Crones. I’m not going to waste time with the Strengers - they fucked up. I’d killed two of the Crones when the third mentioned a trade.”

A single nod. Geralt said nothing more and closed his eyes to listen.

_Eskel returned his sword to his harness. “Make it fast, I’m done with your games.”_

_Weavess, the youngest of the three Crones did not approach him, she teetered on her feet protecting her left side. Eskel’s command, delivered in an even voice held no less power. He wanted her information. She held out her hand and Eskel answered with his sword drawn anew. “No! Wait, Witcher, it is for you!”  A silver medallion hung on a chain. “A gift! I took it from the girl!”_

_“What girl?” No women held a witcher’s medallion save one. Ciri. When Hunt killed Vesemir, they all decided Ciri would be the keeper of his medallion. “Where is she?” Eskel advanced several paces forward._

_Weavess shrunk backwards. “She fled towards the sea. Take it! Take it and let us go!”_

_“Toss it over and I’ll consider your offer. What’s stopping me from taking your head?” He shifted to his left, giving her a wide berth._

_She was perhaps the least disturbing of the three in appearance. One eye covered in a patch bearing three crooked scratches and the other a honeycomb. Eskel could see honey bees moving out of one hole and into another. A noose hung around her neck, if it served a purpose other than to frighten, Eskel did not know. Her misshapen body walked with a pronounced hunch, a spare set of legs jutted out from her abdomen. Eskel tightened the grip on his sword inching to his left._

_Throwing back her head, Weavess cackled and pointed at Eskel, “the boatmaker’s son lined his pockets but not the boat - the Lion Cub she swims but does not drown. Not so the shifty son.” Tentative steps, almost imperceptible movements to a human eye, caught Eskel’s attention. His medallion hummed. Weavess planned to attack him._

_Circling to his left, Eskel spun his blade around with an exaggerated flourish.  A spot near the Crone’s body sent dirt flying upwards, the crack of a shot followed. “Idiot,” he mumbled._

_Weavess searched the sky, uncertain where the object came from. Eskel saw the second shot penetrate her chest caving in the fabric of her clothing. The Witcher didn’t want to think why the large caliber bullet didn’t pass through her.  “What have you done? I cannot leave.”_

_The witcher grinned grateful the combination of silver and relict oil prevented her escape, “how do you like that silver?” He readied for her attack before he yelled to no one, “Try hitting the fucking target this time!”_

_Her head fell back, and she screeched, confused why she could not escape. Hands stretched into claws she stepped closer to Eskel. He watched her head snap back and a large hole in her forehead oozed black fluid. “Finally.” Eskel rushed forward slashing at the Crone’s head. The dull thud of her head hitting the ground nearby followed by her misshapen form signaled he had won. He sheathed his sword and strode towards the corpse to retrieve Ciri’s medallion._

_Boots scuffed behind him displacing dirt and rocks on their approach. Without turning around, he addressed the person behind him. “I thought you said you could shoot.” A few muttered curses behind him revealed his taunt hit the mark. “You had one thing to do here Lambert. We’re lucky she didn’t understand what was happening.”_

_The two witchers faced each other. Tossing the rifle to Eskel, Lambert’s usual scorn intensified from the jibes. “Fuck you. The Crone is dead. Next time ask Geralt to help you.” Lambert walked towards the fallen creature and nudged her with his foot. “Oh that’s right, the bastard can’t be bothered to stay sober long enough to do shit.”_

_Lambert despised Geralt. At least, so he claimed. Eskel recognized a renewed jealousy ever since Geralt resurfaced. “I called you, not Geralt. So, shut up.” Eskel examined the medallion._

_“Is it the old man’s?” Lambert’s question carried a heavy burden. Ciri would not have parted with Vesemir’s medallion without a struggle. Eskel hummed in response. “Shit. What did she say?”_

_After a brief discussion, Lambert offered to search the route to the sea. “Geralt’s a prick, but Ciri. . .she deserved better.”_

_Eskel shook his head. “She’s out there, make no mistake. The Crone mentioned the boatman’s son. I’ll head to the shipyard in Velen. Want to come along?”_

_Lambert exhaled with rude sound. “Not a chance. You’ll no doubt try to find him next, right?”_

_Eskel held back a sigh, Lambert wouldn’t be able to get within a few feet of Geralt without wanting to take a swing at him. “Depending on what I find. If you pick up a trail on Ciri, let me know.”_

_Lambert strode away waving his hand. “Yea, yea, whatever.”_

Johnny held his breath afraid to make a sound in the silence of the office. Eskel knew better than to interrupt Geralt’s thought process. _He’s taking everything I’ve told him apart._ “Come on Johnny, let’s give Geralt time.” Eskel ushered the godling out of the room.

Johnny’s careful steps around Geralt were no less soft.

A question cut through the room, simple and direct. “Eskel, do you have the medallion?”

Chastising his oversight under his breath, Eskel slid around the desk opening a drawer. The package, wrapped in a blue cloth and carried with care slipped into Geralt’s hands. “It’s the old man’s, Wolf. I’m sure of it.”

The medallion in his hands belonged to Ciri. Yennefer and Ciri picked out the chain after Vesemir’s broke. “The question is, did Ciri remove this or was it taken from her. Would have been helpful to leave the Crone alive.” Geralt looked up at Eskel. “Relax, I would have done the same.”

Screams and shouts from the casino floor forced the witchers into action. Geralt stuffed the medallion into his pocket. “Got anything I can use?”

Scoffing, Eskel opened a cabinet to his left. “Do I have something you can use? Hello, have we met? Twelve gauge or something smaller?”

“Give me the shotgun. Let’s do this.” Eskel handed over the weapon, sliding boxes of shells onto the desk.

Johnny’s excitement evident as he clapped, he hurried to join them. “What do I get?”

“To hide,” Geralt said.

The commotion escalated below. Tuning in to the sounds below Geralt held up his hand. “I know that voice.” _Roche, it has to be him._   “It’s Vernon Roche. He must have followed me; he’s looking for Yen.”

“Do I want to know why?” Eskel glanced over once before opening the office door. The two stepped out on the balcony.

Frightened patrons huddled in corners and hid behind hulking slot machines. Eight men stood at strategic points throughout the upper floor of the casino; each covering a means of entrance or escape. Vernon Roche approached the stairs; his slow, deliberate gait carrying him closer to the landing. His stare fixed on Geralt, Roche crossed his arms and settled on his feet; preparing to wage a war of words or more if defied. “Give her to me.” The command resonated in spite of the tinny mechanical music of the slot machines filling the room.

Eskel primed his shotgun. “This is not that kind of place, Roche. Take your men and go.”

Roche paraded around the tables throwing dice down the felted game tables. “Geralt, where is Yennefer?”

Geralt wouldn’t start a gunfight with so many innocents around, Roche knew him too well. “She isn’t here–I arrived alone. If your boys had asked the guard instead of cracking his skull-“

A round of laughter broke out from Roche’s men. Geralt knew they lacked finesse to question a witness.

Holding up his hand, the men quieted. “I’m sorry Wolf, but I don’t trust you.”

“Yea, can’t trust me. . .but Radovid? No problem.” Geralt primed his shotgun and aimed at Roche. Eight guns took aim.

Johnny slid behind Geralt’s leg. “Something old approaches, Witcher. Something that should not be awake.”

Answering the godling’s concern, Geralt responded. “Johnny, get in the office and hide. Don’t come out until I come find you, got it?” Geralt’s medallion strummed. _Better be Regis or we’re fucked._


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roche and his men are locked in a standoff with Geralt and Eskel. According to Johnny, they're about to have another guest at the Crow's Perch Casino.

Ch 12

 _By the Gods, if I live -  I swear to quit and return home._ Raisa prayed along with the other patrons in the casino; the Temerian militia would sooner kill every patron than to lose the fight to two witchers.  The dark-haired witcher had been kind to the staff when he took over a few days prior. Nothing like Strenger. The Bloody Baron indeed–a madman. He’d had Masha tossed out in the rain for showing up late and Raisa shuddered at the memories of stretchers leaving during the high stakes Gwent Tournament. Accused of cheating, one player pulled out a weapon and killed his opponents before Strenger’s men took him down. She remembered Strenger’s laughter as the bodies were carried out. Faced with her own death, she shut her eyes and prayed for deliverance.

Looking out over the casino floor, Geralt counted forty-seven heads packed together in the corner. “Let the casino guests go, Roche!”  A quick glance revealed hopeful stares in Roche’s direction.

“So theatrical, my friend. No doubt you wish to put the fault with my men for this minor skirmish.” Roche’s steps carried him up the first step. “I would be happy to let these good citizens free.”

A collective sigh rose from the huddled guests. Roche held up his hand. “Providing. . . you hand over Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

The idea Yennefer might be the cause of injured innocents troubled Eskel. “That’s what this is about? What did she do?”

“Nothing.” Geralt replied.

Advancing forward, Eskel called out to Roche. “What did she do?”

Roche climbed several stairs and spoke in his normal tone. “The witch killed a man in Novigrad, a woman in Oxenfurt and I expect there are more.”

“I think you have the wrong person, Roche.” Eskel offered. Turning to Geralt, he  “Tell me the truth, Wolf.”

His eye fixed on Roche, Geralt answered Eskel’s question. “It’s not Yen.”

Eskel’s voice filled the room. “Geralt doesn’t lie to me, Roche. It’s time for you to go.”

The slightest whisper of a voice, inaudible to all except the two witchers, concurred. “I couldn’t agree more.  If you’ll forgive the mess.”   

A nebulous cloud of crimson streaked with tendrils of black enveloped the first of Roche’s men; the scream emanating from within unsettled the others. The swirling mass soared through the room knocking over chairs and stools in its haste to exit. Heads turned in frantic movements as the remaining men tried to find their new enemy and their missing man.  Even the Militia had grown complacent after Hunt and Frost were defeated. Monsters no longer roamed the Realms. Nevertheless, a monster had found them, the fear of the unknown and reappearance of an invisible foe broke through the Militia’s legendary toughness. Roche’s men waivered, their resolve weakening as the amorphous cloud returned. Heads whipped back and forth, guns trained on nothing and everything waiting for the next move.

“What madness is this, Wolf?” Roche’s jaw clenched and eyes narrowed at Geralt; whatever game the witcher played, they could not win.  “Enough, Geralt. My men will retreat for now and we will talk.”   Roche turned and ordered his men to leave and wait for him outside. Roche remained locked in a defiant stare through the hurried departure of the Militia. Chairs toppled in haste; each loud sound answered by the whimpers and gasps of the casino guests, still unsure if the ordeal had ended. Eskel tasked the casino employee’s to help the guests to their rooms or to leave if they wished. Yet despite the relief unfolding around him, Geralt’s weapon remained locked on Roche’s approaching form.

“Gods, Wolf. Lower that before you injure someone.” Roche removed his gloves waiting on the top step.  “I see you’ve come to your senses and left those archaic ways of yours behind,” he said with a quick nod to the shotgun.

  
“No,” Geralt replied, “this would have left a larger and more _satisfying_ hole.” Geralt motioned for Roche to enter the office. “No sudden moves, Roche.”

Raising his hands in surrender, Roche crossed the landing and waited for Geralt. “Please. We’ll talk - no accusations and no weapons, just talk.” Roche waited until Geralt agreed. “Tell me something, Wolf. What makes you so sure Yennefer is innocent?” The two entered the office. Roche fell into a chair while Geralt removed the unspent shells and returned the shotgun to the weapon rack.

He answered without turning around. “I know her. What makes you so sure she’s guilty?”

“I know Radovid.” Roche answered. “He can be. . .persuasive. How better to eliminate your enemies than to use a sorceress?”

Radovid’s persuasive nature stemmed from his distrust of any living creature other than himself; those around him were born for the sole purpose of his use, but he had a particular hatred of magic and those who wielded it.  Philippa’s eyes were Radovid’s trophy during the Second War, a fitting recompense for her crimes.

Geralt knew Philippa well enough to decipher how she had attracted Radovid’s anger. Her strong will, venomous words and blatant contempt adding to her power as a sorceress was more than enough to condemn her for infinite lifetimes.

Yennefer knew better. She’d learned to speak the language of vagueness and niceties without commitment or allegiances.  

“You underestimate Yen,” Geralt explained, “she’s navigated through more politics than you could possibly comprehend. She’s dealt with emperors, kings and generals through more wars than you and survived. Neither Radovid nor Emhyr control her. Let it go, Roche. Yen isn’t your killer.”

“Wolf, you ask too much.” Roche shook his head. “The fact Radovid refuses to speak with me, proves he has discovered my ruse. I’m wasting time waiting for-“

Geralt stepped closer, speaking in a hushed voiced. “Radovid’s dead. He’s not plotting anything.”

“Gods! Don’t joke like that, Wolf. If it were true-“

“I saw the body. He’s dead, and no Yen didn’t help him along.” Geralt offered.

Eskel entered his office, with Regis close behind. “What are we talking about?” The witcher asked.

“Radovid. . .is . . .dead.” Roche’s disbelief pushed his words out slowly.

“Don’t look at me, Wolf. Wasn’t me.” Eskel said, taking in the tension between the two men. “So.  Gwent, anyone?”

Roche’s favorite pastime, he brightened at the mention of a card game. “I could use a distraction. Have you got a deck? Pull it out.”

Geralt and Eskel looked at one another and laughed. Roche, realizing his words, grumbled at the juvenile reaction.

Leaning against the wall, Regis’s dramatic sigh earned the group’s attention. “Ah maturity. The one thing all those silly little potions and concoctions failed to enhance.” Regis adjusted the strap of his bag. “Roche, is it? Time for you to run along, I’m afraid. I would be more than happy to escort you out, but I believe you might wish to leave on your own feet?”

Rather than leave, Roche stood indignant.  “Who exactly are you, and why would I leave?”

A sweeping arm and a proper bow presented, Regis introduced himself. “Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, but Regis will suffice. I am a friend to Geralt, and short on patience.  Good night to you, Roche.” Regis bowed once again but his arm swept towards the door.

“Very smooth, Regis.” Geralt added, “Roche, I’m working on it. Go back to Novigrad and I will find you as soon as I can.”

Roche opened his mouth to speak, but held his words as Johnny crept out from under the desk.  “Excuse me, Witchers, but can I stop hiding now?”

The emergence of the godling caught Regis’ eye. “A godling? Geralt I must say you may have grown more interesting since last we spoke.” Regis bowed to Johnny. “Master godling, how do you fare?”

Johnny giggled behind his hand. “You’re old. But I like you. I’m Johnny.”  The godling rested his small hands on his hips and smiled up into Regis’ face.

“My name is Regis, the pleasure is mine. Will you be joining us, Johnny?”

Geralt and Eskel answered simultaneously, “no.” 

Dejected, the godling pouted and sat on the desk. Eskel saved the conversation through a reminder of Johnny’s promise to fix the broken machines.

Nodding quickly, Johnny smacked his forehead. “Apologies Witcher Eskel. Work first, then play.” Johnny ran off, leaving the others to plan their investigation.

The boatyard would be first on their list. Regis could pick up any trace beyond their capabilities. “Drowning in no water suggests elemental magic; do any of your sorceress friends work in such ways?”

“That’s the problem Regis,” Geralt explained, “If you took each member of the Lodge and fit them together or sent a new woman to each murder then I would say the manners of death make sense. Fire, poison, water and I can’t dismiss the attack on Yennefer through the portals. Everything we’ve seen suggests a sorceress, but the strength to send monster after monster out of exile to fight me . . . suggests a refugee from the Aen Sidhe.”

The idea the monsters and shadows returned unsettled Roche. “Perhaps an illusion? Meant to confound you?”

Regis joined Roche and patted his shoulder. “Hush or leave. Let the witchers think.” Regis’ slow steps carried him back to the conversation. “If you are right Geralt, perhaps the gateway was opened from this side? A portal missed perhaps?”

Eskel disagreed. “I don’t see how.  When Hunt and Frost died, we made sure no one remained behind and every portal destroyed. That was the agreement and the treaty. “

Regis stepped away, tapping his lower lip. “The ability to awaken or even pull such creatures through to this realm, would have taken blood magic of the strongest kind. Have there been other awakenings?”  

Eskel joined the conversation, “Only the Crones so far. At least, I haven’t heard of other contracts and Lambert took off to follow Ciri’s trail.”

 The conversation flowed on around him, but Geralt’s attention strayed to a large map on the far wall.   “So far the murders have followed Ciri’s path.”  He reached up, traced a winding trail from Velen to Novigrad, and tapped his finger near the Skellige Isles. “After the boat was delivered from Velen, I traveled with Ciri to Skellige,“ Geralt recounted. His hand recoiled with a somber thought. _After that, I lost her._

Eskel suggested a visit to Keira Metz. “She’s been hanging around looking for work; she might be willing to help.”

Roche sat in silence, unable to process the revelations he’d heard.

_____________

Ard Skellig

Gloom settled as a cloak on the Isles, sunsets nonexistent along the intracoastal waters. Hulking mountains blocked what little light could shine, and the cold descended within minutes of the sun disappearing behind the mountains.

 

Macsen Drummond wandered the docks in search of games of chance or lacking that, company for the night. One of the few remaining weaponsmiths of the Isles, he lived well and burned through his earnings fast. The clans preferred steel to guns, a broadaxe, or a sharpened pike much more useful in a brawl. Guns ended fights too quickly.

Despite the passage of time, the clans still harbored deep grudges between them and none so long or so entrenched as Clam Drummond’s open defiance of Clan an Craite. Cerys an Craite kept a shrewd eye on Clan Drummond’s dealings. The Isles were hers. Every now and again, she had to remind the clans to fall in line and follow her. Madman Lugos, the head of the Drummond clan had warned Macsen against his shady dealings.

_“Listen. I dinna care if you like her or no’. Ye dinna have ta bed her, but ye have ta follow the rules, man. Either stop the skimming and pay the lady her due or hide it. Clear?”_

Rubbing his beard, Macsen dismissed the old warning. “What the lady don’t know, can’t hurt me,” he said aloud.

A blast of frigid air swirled around the docks. Macsen shivered despite his bulk, his hulking frame covered in a heavy cloak to fight back the Skellige bitter cold. He spent twenty hours a day basking in a heat of his workshop, four large furnaces and multiple forges burning to keep up with the demands of the Iles and beyond. He supplied pressed iron and reinforced steel for construction projects as well as his lucrative weapon trade. The constant exposure to such high temperatures altered his ability to withstand the cold.   Macsen sought the warmth of the bar near the docks.

The air unsettled around him, a second gust of wind forced him to stager back several steps. _Unnatural, this is_ , he thought and swore several times and pulling his cloak around him, another icy gust filled his nose with a scent, thick as springtime breezes. “It’s the witch,” he scowled, looking around for signs of the raven-haired harpy he’d seen with Cerys.

A rich feminine laugh accompanied a swirling mass of frigid air, encircling Madsen and preventing any movement. He saw the figure step from between the warehouses, clad in a heavy cloak, hood obscuring her identity. “Not quite,” she said, removing her hood. Dressed all in black, if Macsen hadn’t met the sorceress before, he’d mistake the woman for the other. “When you turned the ashen haired woman away, did you think on her after you’d learned her identity?”

Macsen, trapped within the strange vortex, couldn’t hear the woman. “I canna hear you over the wind, witch. Let me go!” Attempting to push through the spinning winds, Macsen yelped, snatching his hand back in shock. Three of his fingers felt odd, nerves jumping around from innumerable pinpricks. Sounds faded as she stepped forward, repeating her question again.

“The Witcher’s lass? No, you’ve got it wrong. I sharpened all the blades she handed me. She’d asked me to make her a sword, but I told her nothing I could make would be as fine as her own.” Macsen tried to recall the conversation.

_She’d waited hours for him, he knew that much. It wasn’t until one of his men described the young woman as ashen haired and bearing a deep scar across her eye, he broke from his work to speak with her. She smiled when he approached. Witcher Geralt was her guardian if he remembered the gossip. Wiping his hands and face with a towel, she apologized for disturbing his work._

_“I don’t know if you remember me, my name is Ciri. I wondered if you might help me.” She spoke with confidence and grace, not like the brash women of the Isles. Macsen listened as she brought out several blades and lamented her failure to find someone suitable to help sharpen them properly. “I’m afraid even with a toolkit; it’s never quite as good as a craftsman.”_

_He led Ciri down the stairs into his smithing area. He chuckled at her enthusiasm. She chatted on about the type of sword she’d wanted but could not find one skilled enough to make it for her. “Silver isn’t scarce, got a bin of it. There’s no one left to make a Witcher’s sword, lass. I’d cause more harm than good. This is a fine blade, needs a little care, lass. I’ll have her ready soon.”_

_He read the disappointment in her bowed head and heavy sigh. “Thank you for your help. I can return tomorrow if I’m a bother.”_

_Macsen shook his head. “Nay, Lass. A little longer and you’ll be able to cleave a bear in half. You’ll see.” He winked and went back to work listening to her laughter._

 The cloaked woman hissed at Macsen. “Lies! You sent her away! There is but one left after you Macsen Drummond. Tonight, you die.”

_________

Eskel led Geralt to the garage with Roche close behind. “So Wolf, where’d you dig up the higher vampire, thought they were all gone from the Realms.”

“Been itching to use that little gem since Regis showed up, haven’t you?” Geralt asked.

“Yea,” Eskel cleared his throat, “it’s funny though, right?”

A coughing fit from behind, pulled the attention of the two witchers back to Roche. His pale complexion waned further. Geralt and Eskel exchanged a quick glance at Roche’s discomfort. “What did you think he was Roche -a traveling magician? Did you think the red and black smokescreen all part of the act? You aren’t ready for our world Roche . . .never were.” The sneer on Geralt’s face meant to unnerve Roche even more. “Go home, Vernon. Turn that sense of duty on your own city.” Dijkstra’s request to kill Roche clawed at Geralt’s memories. _When friends turn against one another, who do you trust?_  He couldn’t tell Roche that Dijkstra wanted him dead, but he could set him in the right direction. “You want to know who killed Radovid -start at the Bathhouse.”

At the mention of Dijkstra’s base of operations, the color returned to Roche’s face. “Meaning what, Wolf?”

Climbing into Eskel’s military jeep, Geralt shouted over the roaring engine. “Watch your back.” The jeep pulled out, leaving Roche behind.

Velen never recovered fully from all the wars, battles, the land remained inhospitable often stalling development. No-man's-land, void of any governing body remained lawless and untouched.  The roads at the late hour were empty save for an occasional delivery truck or transport passed them without incident.

The detour to see Keira Metz wasn’t necessary, but Geralt had learned to follow the trail when revealed to him. Keira could either lead him to important information or send him on meaningless errands. One thing resonated with Geralt; unless Keira presented something so compelling–he would head to Skellige and back to Yen. 

He’d defended her to Roche, but the concern that Yen could hide critical pieces from him strengthened Iorveth’s warnings of betrayals from within his circle. The struggle between trust and truth carried him on the road.

Eskel kept quiet on the drive, occasional glances revealed a scowl on Geralt’s face. He’d cradled his forehead in his left hand for almost the duration of the drive. When Geralt sat back in the seat and stared straight ahead, Eskel shared more information. “Kiera’s place is north of Midcopse. The town is abandoned, but she’s stayed on.” Eskel glanced at Geralt for any reaction. “Oh, before I forget. The wraiths around her place? They aren’t real.” 

Eskel’s warning had proved useful. Pulling up to Keira’s large farmhouse, six floating apparitions hovered and floated in circular patterns illuminating the ground with a rich emerald glow, the ephemeral bodies not reacting to their presence. Geralt’s cautious steps lead them closer to Keira’s door.

“Relax, Wolf.” Eskel waved his arm through one apparition. “Nothing there. You know Keira, all about the show.” A scream and the sound of a shattering pot, followed by a low growl set the two into motion. Eskel grabbed the door and shoved with his shoulder.

“Move, dammit!” Geralt drew the Aard sign and sent a blast toward the door, buckling it inward. “Now we break it down!” Together the two rush the door breaking the hinges.

The scream turned to a growl as Keira Metz stomped toward them. “What in the bloody. . . look at my door, Geralt!”

Eskel  stepped forward. “We heard a scream.”

Hands firm against her hips Keira’s rant continue. “You heard a scream and thought to destroy my home–is that it?”

Geralt’s attention had strayed to Keira’s companion. Letho de Gulet leaned against the worktable chuckling to himself. “Wolf School. Bunch of do-gooders.”

Hiding his grin, Geralt offered his hand. “Letho. Good to see you. Care to explain?”

“Wolf–same here. Maybe not so for Keira.” He winked.

Keira still screamed at Eskel until Letho intervened. “Keira is helping me with a problem, I need to get to Skellige, but apparently being a sorceress doesn’t help with a fear of spiders and-“

She turned to Letho and pointed into his chest. “I dropped a pot, that’s all.”

“Threw it, you mean,“ Letho muttered, much to her disgust and a loud scoff as Keira inspected the damage.

She stared at Eskel and Geralt, arms crossed until they took the hint and held the door upright. A brief incantation and the hinges straightened. “That’ll have to do, until one of you buys me a new door.” 

“Send the bill to Dandelion in Oxenfurt, Keira. We’re looking for Lambert–did he contact you?” Geralt did not miss the glance in Letho’s direction. “Come on Keira, I’m looking for Ciri and if you know-“

Holding up her hands to stay his speech, Keira turned away. “I know. Yennefer and Triss already contacted me. I don’t know where Lambert went. He was to meet Eskel at the swamp to take care of the Crones and then . . . nothing.” She sighed but recovered, straightening her shoulders and turning to smile. “So, willful destruction of property aside, how might I be of service?”

Leaving Eskel with Keira to explain the boat maker’s death, Garelt followed Letho into the yard. “Tell me something, Wolf. Do you miss it? Following the Path, hunting in the dark?”

Letho, Kingslayer, renegade wouldn’t contemplate his fate with Geralt. A hidden meaning lay in his words and Geralt would have to ask the right questions. “What do you miss most, Letho?”

“An end. Knowing your enemy is dead and your secrets are safe. Only the dead keep secrets, Wolf.” Letho stared out into the night, not meeting Geralt’s eyes.

 _It’s a warning_ , Geralt thought, _but who or what is the threat?_ He had to think fast, too long and Letho would leave.

“We’ve both had our share of enemies. Maybe I trust too many, grown too old and stupid to know when I’m being used.” Geralt shook his head if he’d said the right thing–Letho would talk.

“Stupidity can cost you, but betrayal costs even more,” Letho offered, “but what your enemies forget Wolf is simple-you _don’t_ betray men like us.”

He’s offering help, Geralt guessed, his mind scrambling for the next question.

“With the right plan, the right bait you can pull anything from its hiding place.” Geralt fished for the right words and hoped Letho would continue.

Stretching his large frame with a yawn, Letho squared his shoulders. “Guess that means I’m going hunting. You interested in the trophy?”

He’s offering. I need to know who and why. Geralt mimicked the stretch. “Not without seeing it first, but the trophy’s yours after the game plays out.”

Letho looked over Eskel’s Jeep as they walked out the front gate. “Nice ride. You still getting dragged around by Roach?” He pointed towards his own bike, the M20. “You should get a ride that won’t require an exorcism when you’re ready to trade up.”

“Not going to happen,” Geralt said.

Letho sat and cranked the engine. “Where’s your buddy these days, Novigrad or Oxenfurt?”

Geralt understood. Letho would pass whatever he learned through to Dandelion, which meant the problem was beyond Dandelion and Zoltan. “Oxenfurt. Watch out for Zoltan, he still complains about losing to you at cards.”

Turning his back, Letho laughed. “That’s because he can’t play for shit. Gwent Champion, my ass. Later Wolf.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt travels to the boatyard in Velen to inspect the third victim. What he finds requires the combined strength of witchers, sorceresses and a higher vampire.

A heady mix of flowers and herbs in the front garden did nothing to mask the choking exhaust of Letho’s bike. Geralt stared at two small points of red until the bike’s presence seemed to vanish from the road. He had suspicions who might be the traitor among those he called friend, and both lived in Novigrad. Letho had no reason to lie, he could be a bastard but Letho always repaid his debts.

Geralt found Letho seven years prior hiding on a farm near Velen. The two worked through a disagreement from Letho’s past, resulting in a heap of bodies and a debt to Geralt. Letho sought to settle his account, which implied Letho planned to disappear soon. In the period of a few days, Geralt once again found himself in the middle of machinations, politics and murder. Unaware that Eskel and Keira waited for him to return, Eskel pulled Geralt back to the conversation  and get to the boat warehouse.

Tapping Geralt on the shoulder, Eskel explained their next step. “Keira’s coming along with us, she thinks-"

The blonde sorceress interrupted, pushing her way past Eskel to get closer to Geralt. “I believe I may be able to identify the origin of the magic, if the body is still intact.”

Geralt’s hand sliced through the air. “No necromancy, Keira. I need to keep this quiet. It’s clear we’re dealing with either a sorceress masquerading as Yennefer or possibly a refugee from the Aen Elle perhaps one of the Sage’s remained behind.”

Stepping back, Keira considered Geralt’s words. “An Elven Sage? It’s possible, but unlikely. They’d never leave such an obvious trail.” She tapped her bottom lip. “All of us in the Lodge have stood opposite Yennefer at one time or another, but we have our own ways of settling differences and none of them involve murder of innocents.”

“Keira, I wasn’t accusing any of you.” Geralt explained. Pissing off Keira before she could help wouldn’t be wise. “What do you plan to do?”

She dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand. “Oh, Geralt. You really needn’t worry about offending me; I’m quite used to you witchers and have learned to ignore your less than polite manner of speaking.”

Eskel snickered. “Lambert. What a prick.”

An exaggerated sigh carried her away from the two. “Well, what will it be; a portal or will you drive?”

“Driving.” Eskel and Geralt replied simultaneously.

Keira muttered about witchers and silliness following them. “Oh! And before either of you try to remind me you can hear me, I know.” She flashed a sarcastic grin at Geralt when he glanced back at her.

________

After several near misses with running deer while chatting with Keira about Lambert, Eskel slowed to a manageable speed and hit his floodlights. With his attention on the road, Keira addressed Geralt. “I’m curious to your reasoning and theory about the Elven Sage.”

Geralt shrugged. “Wasn’t my theory. Regis suggested the idea.”

“Regis!” Keira gasped and turning to face Geralt. Her reaction and her slump against the seat back revealed her knowledge of the larger picture far greater than shared.

“So Lambert wasn’t lying! He’d heard you’d reconnected with an old friend in Oxenfurt, naturally, knowing you Geralt-it had to be Shani at the Academy. Tsk, tsk . . .what _would_ Yennefer think?”

 _She’s trying to shift the subject from Lambert_ , he thought, _Keria and Lambert still pretending it seems_. His matter-of-fact response gave no credence to her comment. “Nice try, Keira. Now back to you and Lambert, where is he and why are you covering for him?”

Keira opened her mouth and then closed it. Eskel’s attempt to hide his laugh within a cough failed, sending her usual soft tone into a growl. “Lambert is . . .I don’t know. That’s the truth. Before he was to meet Eskel, he asked me to send him via portal to Novigrad, which I did. He explained nothing and has not returned.”

Eskel hummed in response. “Come to think of it Wolf, Lambert mentioned Novigrad when we met at the Bog. I didn’t pay attention,” he shrugged keeping his eyes on the road, “he complained, I nodded like I was listening-the usual.”

“Heh,” Geralt’s laugh a forced response. _I’m missing something here,_ he thought _, Lambert in Novigrad, Letho’s rambling about betrayal, Dijkstra and Roche both looking for me to take the other out. Who the fuck do I trust?_  Leaning back, Geralt’s sharpened senses took in Keira’s frustration. Each deep inhale and slow exhale of breath exposed Keira attempting to maintain her outward calm.  _She’s worried about Lambert and in truth, I am too._

The dimmed lights of the boatyard and closed gate confirmed the site had remained untouched since boatyard employees discovered the body. Regis waited near the chain link fence, pulling the gate open for Eskel’s vehicle. Geralt jumped out before Eskel stopped eager for Regis’ assessment.

“Now Geralt, safety first, is that what humans say? Your victim drowned, but the water source is the baffling part of this examination, follow me." Regis led Geralt to the warehouse floor.  Rowboats stacked four to a rack lined the interior. Long rows of skiffs, like the one Ciri purchased stood in stacks of three on the opposite side. Giant fans whirred overhead, the warm dry air contradicting the cause of death. “How did he drown in here? Was the body moved?”

Regis raised his hand, index finger extended, “I considered the possibility, but let us take a closer look. Keira Metz, lovely to see you, it’s been quite a few years.”

Nodding with a polite smile, Keira walked ahead of the group. “Let’s not discuss the particulars, Regis. I’d hoped to try geomancy, but now I’ve looked, it’s unlikely there is any hope of doing so.” She frowned meeting Geralt’s eye. “I won’t be much help.”

“On the contrary, I could use your assistance.” A soft chuckle from the vampire earned Keira’s surprise. “Allow me to escort you. Once you see the victim, all will become clear.”

Eskel leaned closer to Geralt. “Smooth. Been a while, I’d forgotten how slick a higher vampire can be.”

Regis turned his head, without stopping. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

“That’ll work,” Eskel replied, looking at Geralt eyes wide.

“Come on, stop messing around.” Geralt followed Regis deeper into the warehouse.

The long racks gave way to smaller boats near the center, and none could mistake the arm pointing out into nothing from the top of one stack.

“Kiera, if you would please. Are you able to lift the body from its resting place and set it on the table?” Regis stepped back and allowed the sorceress space.

“Mhuin ann adhair!” Keira held her arms up, as a column of air lifted the bloated corpse out of the rowboat and down toward the table.

“Fuck me.” Eskel said. “It’s been less than thirty-six hours since they found him!”  The bloated torso spoke to days of submersion and decomposition. Grey and white mottled skin, so damaged by water loosened and hung in strange angles on the hands and feet, the fingernails lined in dirt. “Wolf, this is not what he looked like when I left.”

“Relax, Eskel.” Geralt walked around the table, medallion humming against his chest. “You feel that?” The two could not deny the pull of strong magic, and it not originating from Keira.

Lost in concentrated thought, Keira shook her head. “This is odd. No one in the Lodge could sustain this kind of water magic without remaining close. Look at the table Geralt.” Keira pointed to a slow trickle of water dripping from the table’s edge.

The longer they watched the water increased in flow. Keira’s eyes grew wider, recognition setting in to her features. “Geralt, this is no ordinary curse, and we’ve awakened it. The body must be destroyed!”

Regis clasped Keira’s hand. His calming voice and slight smile grabbed her attention from the ever-increasing flow of water. “Freeze the body; we will remove it the way we came.”

Shaking her head, Keira explained. “I can’t. This is an elemental curse, the marides- genies of the water. Only another can break it. None of you should touch the skin. I’ll need help and immediately. Wind and lightning could help but fire is better. Your signs are too weak, I fear.”

Geralt saw one solution. “Keira, give me a portal to Skellige, Kaer Trolde. I don’t know how close you can get me to the basement, but Yennefer and Triss should be in the lab there.”

Keira dipped her head and concentrated on the portal. “You must hurry.”   

Without responding, Geralt stepped through.

______________

Air rushed in gusts as Geralt emerged from the other side Yennefer and Triss calling his name at the same time. Holding up his hands to stop the conversation before it began, he offered both what he knew. “Victim at the Velen boatyard is cursed. The corpse is leaking water; Keira says it’s a marides curse.”

The two women pushed Geralt aside and a quick incantation opened another portal. Triss entered first leaving Yennefer to pull Geralt toward the portal.  “Hurry, there isn’t much time.”

Geralt emerged to find Keira and Triss engaged in the destruction of the corpse, Yennefer hurried toward the two women. “Geralt, timing will be critical. Regis, lovely to see you, but would you mind looking out for Keira, she may need a swift hand.” Regis acknowledged Yennefer’s request. “Eskel, if you would, mind Triss. Your shielding may be needed.”

“No problem, I’m on it.” Eskel stood a step or two behind Triss.

Yennefer’s eyes softened, and she smiled. “You’re stuck with me yet again, Geralt.”

“I think I’ll survive. What do you need?” He asked.

“Ask me that very question later. For now, your eyes and ears on the corpse, if the curse reaches an apex, the shield will hold but all three of us will need your help to move clear. You remember our fun with the Djinn. This little curse is thanks to one of their more vindictive counterparts.” She raised her voice to all. “Watch with care, we begin now!”

Mere inches behind her, Geralt’s medallion thrummed from the intense outpouring of magic. His body coiled tight, ready to strike and shield Yen without hesitation. Kiera supplied the first shield, covering the table and body; Yennefer provided a secondary layer of protection, magic could flow out, but not return. The heaviest burden placed on Triss evident from the trickle of sweat traveling down her cheek from her hairline. She fed the firestorm raging within blistering the floor and scorching the table before the corpse ignited and burned. The three women held firm until the body, a mass of charred and diminishing embers, ceased releasing its watery curse.

Eskel called over to Geralt. “Hey Wolf! It’s over right?”

Yennefer kept her focus on the shield but answered his question. “No Eskel, I’m afraid not.” A shift in the air felt by all manifested in a shimmer within Keira’s first layer of protection.

The ash-blonde sorceress glanced at Regis. “This will be messy, are you ready?”

“Of course, dear lady, I am prepared to assist.” Regis looked to Geralt.

He watched as Yennefer and Kiera struggled to hold their shields in place, Triss adding a final layer as she called over to Eskel. “Do me a favor, come closer, there won’t be time enough to move!” He complied, prepared to grab Triss and shield them both.

Geralt needed nothing more, his arm slid around Yennefer’s waist. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.

“I never doubted it . . .ever,” Yennefer responded. To the group she called out a final warning.  “On three! Geralt, count it out for me!”

“One!” He inched to her right, readying his body to swing around her. “Two!” His firm grip tightened as the shimmer within the shields yielded small cracks, he understood. The body would explode when they let go. “Three!” Geralt turned his body to cover hers as he drew the Quen sign, as a mass of charred flesh, ash and wood from the table exploded around them. Yennefer fell limp in his arms, but Geralt held his shield. A glance over his shoulder revealed a calm room, proof enough to release them both.

“Yen!” A gentle shake yielded no response. “Yen, answer me!”

“I’m fine,” she exhaled and steadied herself. Helping her stand, he looked her over for injury. “Geralt, don’t fuss. See to the others.”

Shaking his head as he chuckled at her usual demonstrative nature, he saluted before seeing to Triss.

Knees bent her hands on her thighs, Triss labored to catch her breath. Holding Eskel at bay, she nodded in response to several questions on her well-being. Keira, too brushed off any concerns as the three converged to discuss what they’d experienced.

“I need a minute.” Triss explained, straightening her posture. “I didn’t sense a marides, there’s no entity, just the curse.” Keira and Yennefer agreed each contemplating what they’d felt and discovered. Keira offered to confer with several lodge members about the curse and promised to contact Yennefer by the next morning.

Once she departed, Eskel and Regis worked to gather what they could for disposal. Geralt reached outed to Dandelion. “If anyone has connections to a cleanup crew for something like this, it’s Dandelion.”

Yennefer continued her assessment while Geralt to the phone. “This was unnecessary almost a diversion of sorts, requiring all three of us.”  

Yennefer straightened her jacket and crossed her arms. “I wonder,” she said stepping closer to the office.  “Geralt, correct me please, it’s been a long day. Fire claimed the first victim and only the body burned. Poisons took the second and here- water the third.” He nodded in agreement.  “Triss, do you remember the wheel of Melitele in Ellander?”

Triss tapped her cheek. Her eyes widened at the recognition “Yes! Fire, poison, lightning, water, ice and earth. Ciri complained it was wrong. I remember.”

His call completed, Geralt joined the discussion. “Why did Ciri complain? What’s wrong with this. . .wheel . . .thing.”

A knowing grin from Yennefer carried her towards him. “Geralt, have you read nothing I’d given you? I know all of these ancient texts and old world religions bore you, but in this case you might have seen the connection.” She met his eyes not in annoyance, but with pure affection. “You’ve been busy, so I’ll forgive you this time,” she rested her hand against his chest.

Eskel coughed. “So about this wheel?”

Taking up the impromptu lesson, Triss elaborated. “There’s a stone wheel in one garden at the Temple of Melitele, split into sections. It’s a bit at odds with traditional magic teaching, but it’s what the priestesses learn.”

Geralt remembered a fair amount about the teachings of Melitele. Despite the modernization of the Realms, a fair few still worshipped her, those who maintained an affinity for the land: farmers and foresters and a few remaining cults holding on to the old ways in their crumbling shrines. He listened to Triss as she offered information about the goddess.

Favored by women, her three faces sought for guidance, protection and if necessary, retribution. The Maiden watched over the young and their hearts. The Mother, in all her bountiful glory protected the unborn, the mothers and the babes at the breast. It was the Crone, Triss explained, often misunderstood to carry ill will and revenge in her tattered rags. She offered rest, comfort and the chance to return to the land.

“Regis? Am I forgetting anything?” Triss asked, deferring to him. A surgeon by trade, he’d spent many lifetimes in the Realms and his appetite for knowledge had never waned.

Adjusting his ever-present satchel across his body, a slight bow of his body to Triss meant as a sign of respect. “I will take your question as an inquiry into my memory of tomes and not an insinuation of age.”

She laughed and quickly assured Regis in no way was she suggesting him as old as the founding of the temple. Another inclination of his head toward Triss set the higher vampire to his thinking. Pacing as he spoke, he recalled a similar visit after the First War. “You are correct, Triss. The clay wheel is of interest only to those within the cult as it adds elements of nature not found in your alchemy. The poison is of most interest. You say one of your bodies was poisoned?” Grasping the strap of the satchel, he wandered around. “Most interesting. Might I–Ah,” he nodded as full understanding of Shani’s involvement crystallized, “Shani, of course, I should like to visit her and examine the victim, if. . .Geralt, would you welcome my help? I promise to be quick in my investigation and then join you once more on the search for Cirilla.”

Yennefer answered before Geralt, “Regis, do what you must and join us at Kaer Trolde, I will make arrangements for you. We should leave as soon as possible; there are several books I should like to find.”

Geralt remembered Shani’s request to find a book in the Academy library. “No, we need to go back to the Academy, there’s a book in the library. Only someone born with magic can open it. The book has this substance on it, a powder of some sort. Shani found it on the first body. I’m guessing it might be on the second and there’s no way to check this one. I have a vague recollection of a green volume that hums when you touch it, but I can’t recall when I encountered it.” With Geralt’s long lifespan, it could have been many years since he’d come across it.

Triss and Yennefer’s eyes met. “Geralt, you’ve seen the Llyfr na n-athruithe?” Yennefer faced him. “Geralt, this is important. It’s been lost for years, missing from Aretuza. Tell me you saw it.”

He recalled the conversation with Shani in the library; the Academy received it as a gift from the woman standing in front of him. _How well do you know Yennefer?_ Shani had asked him the question, ridiculous at the time, but her reaction and urgency made no sense. “Yen, you gave it to the Academy.”

Her eyes darkened, a violet storm brewed beneath narrowed eyelids. “I _what_? Geralt that book is sealed for a reason. Should it be opened, the power within could reach beyond our world, wake those who slumber. Geralt, I hope for the sake of the Realms you are mistaken.”

Eskel interrupted. “Wake those who slumber, huh? Like the Crones?” Geralt shook his head once, a silent warning to share nothing.

Triss responded. “Yes, that would only be the beginning. We’d banished most of the monsters Hunt and Frost brought to our world, but whoever opened the book could bring them back.  If the seal’s been broken? There’s no telling what the Realms could face.”

Studying the reaction of the witchers, Yennefer realized the truth of it. “The Crones returned.” Her eyes pleaded with Geralt. “You fought the Crones and didn’t think to share that information?” She turned to Regis. “That’s why you’re here, Regis.  What else, Geralt, and do not lie for my mood will not allow even a single falsehood to fall from your lips without consequence.” Her anger, controlled for the moment threatened to ignite.

“I fought them Yennefer, not Geralt,” Eskel offered, “they mentioned Ciri and the boatman’s son. That’s what led us here. They’re gone.”

She wheeled to face Geralt. “And?” Her anger melted as she met his eyes. “Don’t protect me, tell me. What is happening?”

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers, hands on her shoulders. “Yen. Whatever you thought to prevent, it’s too late. On my way to Oxenfurt, this odd lightning brought an elemental, nekkers and several other creatures in my path in the forest. When Olgierd found me, let’s say the number was significant. All of them meant to prevent me from reaching Oxenfurt in time for the second victim. The Crones must have been the diversion for the third, but they must have returned months ago.” He studied the mess in the warehouse. “There’s another victim somewhere. This was the distraction.”

He stepped back to see her concern. Clasping his face in her hands, she shook her head as she spoke, “the talisman, Geralt. You should have used it.” She’d given him the artifact for this reason, to save his life.

“No,” he said stepping back, “it’s for Ciri when I find her.”

Heaviness fell on those in the room, the weight of obligations to come.  Triss broke the silence, her voice soft and quiet. “I’ll go to the Academy. The magic may be free, but the book may still be of use.”

Knowing Eskel could make her task quicker Geralt suggested he assist. Eskel agreed without hesitation. “Take care of yourself, Geralt. If our friend pokes his head out, I’ll be in touch.” The two witchers shook hands both still aware of Lambert’s disappearance. “You don’t have to ask, I’ll check in on Kiera. If Lambert shows, I’ll get a message to you.”

Regis promised to join them in Skellige as soon as his investigation completed. All three departed. When the portal carrying Triss and Eskel snapped from existence, Geralt and Yennefer stared at one another without speaking.

Walking to the center of the floor, an incantation and sweep of her arms activated a portal. At first, Geralt thought she meant to leave him until she turned and held out her hand. Once he stepped through the portal, there could be no more secrets between them. Accepting her hand in his confirmed he believed Yen innocent of the murders and collusion with Radovid. _It’s not her. I know Yen._   Geralt clasped her hand tight within his own.

“Tell me everything,” she said, leading him through the portal.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be a slight delay in the next chapter. 2 weeks instead of one.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt, believing in Yennefer's innocence, travels to Skellige to renew the search for Ciri. Through the course of the evening, he realizes Yennefer has not been entirely truthful.

 

Most remember days of significance- filled with emotions and a certain elation that remain a part of them for years. Many used photographs, recordings or printed materials to carry the memories of events and experiences through time. Geralt forgot nothing; not a name, a face or an event–every contract that yielded a story of betrayal or evil deeds he carried the memory with him.  The witcher aged watching the Realms change around him; despite his desire to keep the traditions of the past, he did not shun the conveniences of the times. The curse of long life is the accumulation of a past so vast it would drown a lesser mind. Sleep without drink invited endless recollections; a procession of faces and stories.

Yennefer loved his recollections; his stories shared parts of his life she missed. Three wars often kept them apart as did obligations on their separate paths. Those moments they could slip away from the world and melt into one another.

 They’d returned to Yennefer’s rooms in Skellige and despite his determination to sleep elsewhere, the morning revealed he’d stayed the night.

Resting her head against his chest, Yennefer traced a trio of scars she’d not remembered. “And these? They almost look to be fingernail scratches.” She paused before looking up at him, “not that I’m accusing you of anything . . . yet.”

She’d never admit to jealousy, Yennefer and Geralt always seemed to find one another no matter the time apart. Even now. He’d sworn an oath to leave her to whatever fate she chose for herself, for Yennefer yielded to no one- least of all fate. She would blame their unending relationship on that damnable Djinn, but Geralt never believed it was a wish that kept them bound.

“They are fingernail scratches, Yen, but not the kind I’d like to repeat.” Geralt offered before turning to envelop her once more.

A quick move away from him preceded her response. “Not just yet, Geralt. I wish to hear the story and then I’ll decide what comes next.” Yennefer’s playful push and eager expression necessitated the telling of the story.

He sighed and resisted rolling his eyes, sure to make his wait in her bed even longer. “Fine,” he said, shifting his frame to face her. “Toussaint offered many sights, as you might remember, Yen.”

She hummed and nodded in response. “Delightful wine, sumptuous food and that tiny bed, yes I remember it well. Tell me, have you replaced it yet?”

His expression unfazed, he stared back into her violet eyes. “Do you want to hear the story or complain about the bed?”

A slight smirk overtook her face, and she agreed to listen to his story.

_The Silver Salamander Inn in the north of the Sansretour Valley offered several contracts calling for a witcher. Lost livestock that turned out to be a dare carried out by local children proved easy enough, another a lost package near a monster nest. The Second War of the Realms hadn’t reached this deep into the Toussaint countryside, leaving much of the destruction far from the vineyards and farmland._

_Colette watched the witcher occupy a table away from the others, he’d been around for several days and she’d been unable to speak to him despite her growing concerns.  Six days with no word, she reminded herself, forcing each step closer to the white haired man. She’d listened to the stories how he helped the Duchess and so many others. She had to try. Lucien meant the world to her. She steeled her nerves and took cautious steps closer to his table._

_Geralt heard every step, every forced breath as the woman drew closer to his table. Despite the advances across the realms, these smaller towns and villages preferred the braziers and oil lamps to the power driven electric lights. Musicians played live every night, instead of the tinny recorded music found in the larger cities. Toussaint overall desired nothing to do with the modernization of life. Hard work, hands to the land and reaped the rewards. Geralt favored the view as well, the hum of electric lights and machinery annoyed witchers. The problem with Toussaint? The monsters preferred it too. Geralt’s medallion vibrated in a consistent thrum._

_He waited until she stood a few feet away before addressing her. “Looking for a witcher?”_

_A slight gasp escaped her before she hurried to his table and sat, pulling her cloak around her. “Yes. Lucien . . .he. . .I don’t know.”_

_Leaning back in his chair, he took long slow breaths, meeting her eyes. The woman’s shoulders relaxed. “Let’s start again.” Geralt touched his chest. “Geralt and you are?”_

_Her given name took a few more calming words, so shy she obscured her face under a hood. In soft and frightened tones, Collette rambled on about her missing boyfriend. He’d promised to remain with her and swore to his unending faithfulness. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Geralt extracted the rest of the story. Lucien had disappeared days ago on a fishing trip to his favorite location, a secluded spot at a bend in the river up north._

_Geralt remembered the numerous panthers roaming the northern area, guessing this Lucien had died thanks to a hungry cat. “Why do you need a witcher?”_

_“Because of the mermaid,” Collette said without hesitation._

Yennefer sat up. “Geralt, there are no mermaids and certainly not in a river of all places.”

Leaning closer to her Geralt whispered, “I can finish the story another time if you want.” 

“Geralt, really.” Another push against him elicited a low chuckle from the witcher.

“Don’t interrupt,” he winked before resuming the story.

_Mermaids? In children’s tales, beautiful young women with dulcet voices and impossibly perfect hair existed in the printed pages. In truth, Geralt had encountered the real thing; Sirens, nasty bitches of the oceans, giant wings, screeching like cats in heat. They’d sooner drown you than seduce you. He wondered if a Siren could have wandered far enough to Toussaint and preferred the solitude._

_“What do you know about this . . .mermaid Collette? Is there anyone else who may have seen her?”_

_Collette shared names of several local fishermen who claimed to have similar encounters. She handed Geralt a crude map drawn by Lucien to lead him to the fishing spot. Questioning the fishermen yielded nothing. Tall tales and lies. He’d have to find the spot and look for the supposed mermaid._

_Wandering around the woods didn’t worry Geralt, he hoped to find Lucien lost and rambling about rather than a corpse. Humans placed faith in a witcher to deliver their loved ones home, when in most contracts, the loved one hadn’t survived. The crude map pointed the way to a bend in the river; a large pile of rocks in the small basin looked harmless enough -until he saw her. The lower half of the woman submerged, she sat with her head in her hands; Geralt assumed she cried by the shaking of her shoulders and hunched frame._

_“A naiad?” Geralt asked, navigating his steps around the wood and rocks. Her hair hung in tight braids, the rich brown color to her locks complimented her green tinted skin.  She glared at the witcher and snarled._

_“Now hold on, I’m looking for a human he’s been missing for days.” Geralt held out his hands, making no move to his sword. The war had displaced many. If she’d been separated from others, this secluded space would make the perfect sanctuary. Slow steps brought him closer, until Geralt stopped several feet short of her, and waited. “Have a name?”_

_Her hands slapped down on bare thighs, her naked breasts jostled with the effort. “Why? So you can name your kill?”_

_The witcher resisted the urge to snap back and shook his head. “Courtesy. They call me Geralt.”_

_She straightened, staring back at him. “Geralt?” She asked swinging her legs around. “Why do I know your name?”_

_In a single fluid motion, he stood and explained he’d helped out several of her kind during the first war of the Realms. The naiad he’d helped had him running in circles over a lost necklace. Geralt hoped whatever troubled this naiad could be easily fixed._

_Wading across, she joined him. “I don’t believe you, that was many years ago, and she was kin to me,” her conviction in the impossible statement emboldened her._

_Geralt had been a younger man then, still under Vesemir’s tutelage. Not wanting to be caught in a battle of wills and words, he showed the tattered red ribbon he’d received knotted on his harness. “She gave me this near Murky Waters, if she is gone, I’m sorry for your loss.” He tried to steer her attention back to the missing fisherman and when he described Lucien, she bared her teeth and hissed._

_The naiad recovered from her anger and explained the young man had found her and announced she was his. He’d waited around ever since to claim his wishes from her. “Wishes? I’ve never granted wishes to a human!” Her head fell to her hands again._

_Hiding a smile, Geralt offered to remove the young man providing the naiad find a new spot far from the settled areas of the river.  She agreed and suggested Geralt look up the river for young Lucien._

_The young man waited at a makeshift camp, standing when Geralt approached. “She’s mine! I saw her first.”_

_Crossing his arms Geralt remained several feet away. “Listen, Collette asked me to find you. She’s worried about you.” Geralt saw no recognition at the mention of Collette. “You should know your little friend back there has returned home.”_

_Lucien’s growl carried him in Geralt’s direction allowing the witcher to draw the Axii sign and persuade Lucien to return home. Throughout his walk, the young man insisted he did not know a woman by the name of Collette. Halfway to the village, Collette waited for them._

_She called to Lucien to follow her, but seeing the man’s agitation and backwards steps Geralt stepped closer. In this moment, his medallion hummed. Eyes narrowing at the woman, Geralt realized the constant thrum he’d felt ceased from the time he’d left the river until now. “What are you?”_

_“Move along witcher,” Collette said tossing a bag at his feet. “He’s mine.” Collette’s appearance changed, shirking out of her cloak revealing a ghastly white pallor, covered in blood down her naked breasts, white pupils and long scarlet nails left no doubt-Collette was a bruxa._

Peals of rich laughter stopped Geralt’s story while Yennefer fought back tears. “Come on, Yen. It’s not that funny.” Torn between her amusement at his expense and the way his heart skipped at hearing her laugh, Geralt waited for her to finish.  

Seeing his arched brow, she quieted her laughter. “Oh Geralt, take the man from a naiad only to deliver him to a bruxa–a fantastic story. I can see she was none too pleased to lose her pet.”  Yennefer traced the scar with her finger.

“Yea, well. She’s dead. I lived. End of story.” Geralt sank back into the pillows.

Leaning on his chest, she traced lazy circles. “I’ve hurt your pride. I apologize.”

“Fine,” Geralt said.

Yennefer, sensing the opportunity to tease him a bit more rested her head on his shoulder. “Still. . .a witcher taken in by a sad tale and a request. You never know who you can trust.”

He swallowed hard. Geralt hoped his convictions surrounding Yennefer’s innocence were not similar to the story. If he misjudged Yen, the consequences could prove dire. “Is that a hint?”

She pushed up and away from him. Searching his face for a hint of levity and finding none, Yennefer’s voice turned icy and stoic. “You still believe I am capable of these deaths. I thought I’d explained well enough for your sensibilities.”

“Yen. . .I believe you.” Geralt tried to reassure her, moving to join her; an outstretched hand stopped him.

She reached for a hairbrush, and in the simple motion, her hand shook. She paused above the brush and clenched her fist tight before reaching it. “Lies between us? Come now, Geralt.”

“Damn it, Yen, what happened in Oxenfurt couldn’t be staged.”

Tossing the brush on the dressing table, the motion upended several bottles; the clatter seeming much too loud for the room. Yennefer shifted to face him. “Couldn’t it? Think Geralt. If I’d wanted to stage such an event?”

He conceded faking such a light show possible, but Yennefer tested him with her questions.  She searched for one thing from him; Yennefer sought an undeniable declaration of her innocence.

Even if he could dismiss the exertion from Triss to contain the event as collusion and his medallion’s reaction to everything inside the club as a malfunction, Geralt’s memory recalled pain from the magic pouring out of the portals. “The pain felt real enough.” The silence between them, her refusal to look him in the eye revealed she kept a secret.

Yennefer had proclaimed she couldn’t recall the events leading to her escape to Oxenfurt or how her lab had erupted in flames. “You remember, don’t you.” A statement of realization, not a question. Once more she withheld information from him.

“Geralt.” The warning in her voice troubled him more.

“Is it,” he exhaled forcing the name from his lips, “Ciri?” His hand’s clenched instinctively, ready to defend or destroy.

Seeing Geralt’s reaction, Yennefer stood. “No! I believe I know where she might be, but it is beyond my reach. You saw what happened.”

He tired of the games Yennefer played, half-truths, convenient omissions, always wanting to be one step ahead and leaving him to figure it out. “Where is she?”

“Geralt, you will not like the answer.” Her downcast eyes and frown told him she was sincere, not a trace of her usual superior tone.

“Don’t care. Give me the location. I’ll take the risk. You wanted me to find her, remember. Cut the crap Yen and tell me where the fuck Ciri is or I walk for good. Fuck the djinn, fuck my wish and _fuck you_!” Geralt expected to end up in the icy waters somewhere in the Iles. He was surprised when nothing happened.  Yennefer sank into her chair.

“Geralt, you must allow me to return alone.” She pleaded with her eyes; even in the feebleness of her words, her eyes reflected the strength he admired. “Then you follow the next day.”

“No deal.” Yennefer withheld information from him. The location. Something about their destination concerned her. “I’m through playing games, Yen. Should have guessed you were messing with my head.” He dressed without speaking and gathered his gear. “See you around, Yen.”

He’d find Ciri without Yennefer. It might take longer, but anything was better than playing into another one of Yennefer’s games. Options were open to him, but none as direct as Yennefer. He’d find Triss to send him back to Novigrad and hope to pick up on Lambert’s trail.

Geralt heard Yennefer’s hurried footsteps as she chased after him. “Geralt, please stop!” He sighed, turning to face her, certain whatever Yennefer said would not change Geralt’s mind.

“What. No bullshit this time Yen.”  Crossing his arms, he settled on his feet.  A subtle dare for her to lie to him this time.

She looked away, her dark locks obscuring her face as she offered her story.

_It had been years since Yennefer left Ellander, or more correctly the Temple of Melitele. Taking Cirilla away from what Yennefer deemed as rather backwards thinking and hardly the proper place for such a powerful woman to remain. This added to the strained tolerance of Nenneke, who governed over the Temple and its members. Nenneke expressed her displeasure at Yennefer’s interference with Cirilla’s training and spared no opportunity to voice her distrust of the Lodge and the Sorceresses._

_Yennefer expected to be turned away immediately upon arriving and decided to teleport outside the grounds as a small gesture of respect. “I should hope my visit will warrant a few moments to discuss Cirilla’s absence,” she said aloud, reaching the large wooden doors of the Temple.  Yennefer knocked several times and waited for ten minutes without a response. She found the old bell still intact and pulled on the rope to announce her arrival. After four repeated attempts, the door opened mere inches, and a hooded figure stood in the gap._

_“There is no one to receive you. Leave now.” The woman’s voice, neither young no old, spoke in a hushed tone. Yennefer pushed on the door, displacing the woman._

_The darkness of the entryway struck her, the torches inside the entry remained lit, tended by the residents within and to Yennefer’s knowledge never died out. “Why are the torches not lit? Where is Mother Nenneke?” Using the familiar term all novices used in reverence to Nenneke’s position, Yennefer hoped to reveal she meant no ill._

_“Mother Nenneke is. . .visiting family.” The explanation further disturbed Yennefer. Nenneke had no home save the Temple and the people she tended._

_Pulling on her magic, Yennefer lit the torches and the darkened room flickered to life. Confident strides carried her to the cloaked woman. “I shall ask once more and I caution you to reconsider your lie. Where is Nenneke?”_

_The woman removed her hood. Yennefer stared into her likeness. A feminine face stared back, soft features framed by raven locks, but her eyes, frozen in hatred locked to Yennefer’s.  Her hands rested on thin hips, the body shorter and thinner than Yennefer. She laughed, tossing her head back. “You’re a fool to come without your mutt, Sorceress. I’m not finished.”_

_Yennefer understood. “You’re the one killing innocents. The man in Novigrad, the woman in Oxenfurt-”_

_She bared her teeth and gestured wildly. “Innocents? Innocents! One of those whores from the Lodge thinks to lecture me?”_

_Yennefer prepared for the inevitable attack. “I shall ignore your insult, as it serves no purpose,” Yennefer readied to strike. “You shall not harm another.”_

_Sinister laughter echoed on the stone walls as the woman advanced. “I’m. . .not. . .finished!” The first volley of lightning missed Yennefer within inches._

_“I see your control is lacking, perhaps you should have practiced more.” Yennefer intoned the words for her shield in time for the second attack. She had to escape, the enclosed space wouldn’t afford her much time to maneuver around the crazed woman._

Holding up a hand to stop Yennefer’s story, he apologized. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Yen.” Geralt slipped on his harness. “I need you to send me to Ellander. Right now.”

She stared up at his determined jaw and focused eyes. “Not alone. Allow me to ask Triss if she will accompany us. We’ll need help.”

The idea didn’t sit well with Geralt. “Look, I get the reason why but Regis should arrive soon and there’s always Hjalmar-he’s been itching for something other than running the shipping lines.”

Yennefer pushed past Geralt. “Hjalmar won’t be of much help, but Regis is a brilliant idea. Follow me.”

Hurrying up stairwell after stair, Geralt grumbled at the run. “Couldn’t you have picked a room that didn’t double as a dungeon?”

She huffed and continued her steps. “If you spent less time on your back in bed and more time in the sunlight, perhaps this wouldn’t be so difficult.”

He chuckled, “I thought you liked me on my back, Yen. Always better on top, right?”

“Really, Geralt. Must you always reduce everything to sex?” She scoffed and stopped outside one of the guest rooms. Geralt joined her, pulling Yennefer to him, his lips just behind her ear.

“Pretty much.” He said.

She turned around and pushed him away. “I’m not so easily swayed, Geralt. There’s still the matter of your exceptionally rude and hurtful words.”

“I said I was sorry, Yen. What do you want from me?” He frowned.

Rolling her eyes, she turned back to the door and knocked. “A more appropriate apology.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt prepares to travel back to Ellander after years of being away in hopes Ciri rests somewhere near the Temple. Yennefer gathers several allies to help fight against the impostor allowing Geralt to find Ciri and escape.

The plunk of a piano and soft humming of a woman’s voice drifted from behind the door. Yennefer knocked again, louder, but the music swelled covering her attempt. Triss’ voice carried a soulful tune from within.

_Your eyes, how they glow_

_but the truth is I know_

_that your heart is an empty hole_

_When you walked out my door_

_left me wanting for more_

_I learned your heart was an empty hole_

_I don’t know how to make you see_

_The beauty of you and me_

_If you’d stop chasing after dreams_

_She’s not what she seems._

_Now you’re gone far away_

_‘though I wished you might stay_

_But your heart is an empty hole._

Geralt met Yennefer’s eyes with an exaggerated roll. “That is not about me. I swear it.” He gestured toward the door. “Let me just say that right now.”

“Of _course_ not.” She knocked again throwing a quick glance towards him with the hint of a smirk.

Needing to deflect attention away from her taunting, Geralt pounded on the door. “We don’t have time for this.” Geralt used more force than he’d intended, eliciting a light laugh from Yennefer.

“Geralt. I believe you. Please do not damage the door, this castle is ancient.” She rested her hand atop his; her attention enough to relieve his concern, but not his annoyance.

“Open up, I know you can hear us Regis!” Geralt’s medallion revealed the vampire waiting behind the door.

“Regis?” Yennefer said, a slight tease to her voice. “What a lovely singing voice he has.”

The door opened to reveal the higher vampire a slight grin flashed before he faced Yennefer. After his usual bow, he responded to Yennefer’s comment. “Alas, if I were to sing, it might bring the house screaming in fear. I admit to accompanying the true songbird and nothing more.”

“I need you and Triss to travel to Ellander, if you’re both willing.” Geralt glanced over to Triss, a simple nod from her sufficient consent. “Nenneke is missing, and it’s possible Ciri is somewhere nearby the Temple.” None in the room needed more than mention of Ciri, even without the details, Regis and Triss would follow.

Regis slipped his satchel around his person, stepping toward the door. “When you’re ready, shall I meet you?”  
  
Yennefer’s response stopped his departure. “Regis, it would be better if you traveled with Triss.”

A few moments of discussion with Yennefer and Geralt allowed Triss to grab a pack. “I’m ready, let’s go.”

Looking to her friend, Yennefer offered several locations outside the range of the Temple.  Yennefer would create a diversion allowing Geralt to enter through the gardens. “Geralt will find Ciri, leaving a rather impudent witch to the three of us. Make no mistake; she has magical strength and little control. Do not engage her alone.”

The phone line in Triss’ room rang three times in succession.

“That’s a call from Cerys’ office,” Triss explained, “should I pick up?”

Guessing Cerys rarely troubled Triss directly, Geralt took a stab at the reason for the interruption. “If it’s Dandelion, tell him he has shitty timing and I’ll call him in a few days.”

A hurried conversation escalated until Triss held out the handset to Geralt. “You’re right, it’s Dandelion. He says Djikstra wants to see you in Novigrad and he won’t take no for an answer.”

Thanking Triss, he accepted the handset to hear Dandelion’s rapid account of Dijkstra’s ultimatum. _Get the witcher here or else._ Geralt interrupted Dandelion’s panic to explain they’d found Ciri, promising to call the Bathhouse.

The increasing impatience from Yennefer manifested in a sharp tap from her boot and a pointed look.

“Give me another minute.” Geralt said, disconnecting the call and dialing a new number. A few gruff words with the Bathhouse steward connected the call to Djikstra. The delay added to the witcher’s irritation. The longer the silence continued, Geralt scuffed his boot along the floor in a failed attempt to fill the quiet. The first grumble of annoyance gave way to a near growl as the witcher realized the delay had be intentional. “Pick up, damn you!” Time lost waiting mean precious time to find Ciri unharmed.

When Dijkstra’s gruff voice resonated through the handset, Geralt broke into his speech. "Shut up and listen. There are more important people than you, Djikstra. I'll tell you the next time I plan to be in Novigrad. Until then, go play house with Phil the psycho sorceress and your little troll.”

Slamming the handset down, Geralt cursed under his breath and rolled his shoulders  before turning to face Yennefer, her expression a mix of amusement and annoyance. “Phil the psycho sorceress? Really, Geralt.”

“Hey. Don’t turn your judgement on me. I’m not the one who slaughtered a certain monarch and serve him with a fruit garnish.” Geralt shrugged.

The two women spoke together both questioning Geralt’s accusation. Triss, disbelieving his words confronted the witcher. “Philippa may be many things, but she would not have brought that kind of vengeance on anyone.”

Clearing her throat, Yennefer answered before Geralt. “Let’s not be too hasty, Triss. There are certain circumstances that might, and I mean could. . .in the slightest fashion . . . perhaps push Philippa to less than savory pursuits.”

Geralt refused to listen to the two excuse and defend the crazed sorceress. “No. She’s insane. Took off Radovid’s head and stuck it under a serving bell with fucking garnish around it. No doubt. I saw it and let’s just say Djikstra will be paying me back for that mess until he’s in the ground.”

The gravity of Philippa’s actions kept the two silent. Regis taking the opportunity to lighten the tension offered what he felt to be appropriate. “I do hope the dinner service was somewhat festive. He was royalty after all.”

The phone interrupted again with its distinctive ring. Geralt attempted to caution Triss, but she answered the ring before he could stop her.

Hearing Triss gasp and reading the sadness on her face, Geralt stepped toward her. “What is it?”

“Cerys is upset. The dockworkers found the smith, and he’s frozen. Several of his fingers crumbled to dust when they attempted to move him.” Triss explained to the others. “Could this be another Marides, like what we saw in Velen?”

All attention focused to Regis. “If you assume I know the cause of death from those few words, you put far too much faith in my abilities. A few minutes are required to investigate, and after I shall meet you in Ellander.”

A long look passed between Geralt and Yennefer, unspoken apologies, understanding and concern. Yennefer spoke first. “It’s likely nothing, you know. He could have fallen in the water and froze to death.”

Disbelief, not disrespect, guided Geralt’s response. “Froze solid? Come on, Yen. That’s magic and you know it.”

With a sigh of exasperation, she conceded and agreed all would accompany Regis. “Fine, but time is critical, if this is the fourth then only one section remains.” Yennefer referred to the Wheel of Melitele, the mark of the elements of magic. When they’d found the victim in Velen, two sections remained-ice and earth.

“You mean that wheel thing.” Geralt said.

Refusing to stop, Yennefer continued the conversation as the group walked on.  “Yes, Geralt. The _wheel thing,”_ she said, “there is but one section remaining. Earth. This woman is nearly done and I fear she has chosen Ciri as her final victim.”

_____________

Geralt and Regis could find nothing other than a strong lingering magic around Macsen, the smith. Several dockworkers described a cloaked woman similar in appearance to Yennefer and assumed the sorceress  had taken in more of the city than just her known place in Cerys’ home.

Keeping an eye on the passage of time, Geralt and Regis concluded Macsen had been the victim of magic, not a curse, and ordered the body cremated immediately. Yennefer and Triss used the extra time to prepare potions, poultices and all manner of magical devices for them to face the woman who nearly bested Yennefer. When all were ready to depart, Yennefer summoned the first portal, sending Geralt away from the main entrance of the Temple.

Stepping through the portal, the deterioration and neglect of the Temple shocked Geralt. The Temple, far older than he, still stood outside the city proper, but the overgrowth of vines and trees obscured much of it; a sign of progress and abandonment of the old ways. Taking in the unrestrained encroachment, Geralt wondered how Nenneke had left her beloved Temple so ignored.

Geralt pushed through the underbrush towards the gardens, surprised to find the wall crumbled and forgotten. Nenneke loved every leaf, blade and petal as if it were part of her. Now, nothing lived within the once lush foliage; not a blade of grass, not a single flower showed a sign of their once beautiful existence.

A tremor moved through his medallion. “Magic did this.” The revelation someone would be willing to destroy the mother goddess’ temple for selfish means urged Geralt to hurry. Death meant nothing to the one who had destroyed this. “Ciri, where are you?” 

Whatever now wandered the hallways of the Temple woke. Geralt’s medallion hummed from the influx of magic nearby, and a tremor moved the ground beneath his feet.  Steeling himself to the task of finding Ciri, he had the gardens memorized, but the landmarks he once used, the rose garden, the lilac rows and even the fountains couldn’t be discerned. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Geralt closed his eyes to think.

Recalling several outbuildings scattered in various locations, Geralt thought to make a quick pass to each if he could find them. The grotto, carved into the rock face behind the temple would be his final stop. The translucent crystal roof created a natural greenhouse, and the magical garden within, likely the only place left untouched, would be too obvious a prison. The darkening sky and increasing winds indicated Yennefer had joined whatever fight occurred elsewhere as the second tremor jolted him into action.

At the moment he turned, a white light, small and bright buzzed around him. At first thinking it a bug, Geralt shooed it away; when the light intensified and rushed him, Geralt had to take notice. “There’s no such thing as faeries, so what the hell are you?”  Given the fight outside the temple, he couldn’t be sure of its origin. As Melitele’s high priestess, Nenneke didn’t possess the skills to create such creatures; her knowledge of potions and medicines could not have summoned the orb.  His medallion gave no warning, but he couldn’t discount the constant hum from just the influx of magic used by Yen and Triss. Geralt didn’t know if whatever controlled the light was friend or foe, but precious time slipped away the longer he waited. He had to find Ciri.  This time he’d use everything in his power to protect her. His determination prompted a quick check of his swords, his shouldered Colt, and the ankle holster Eskel lent him.

The light floated closer until it almost touched his nose. “Stop that,” he said, considering the strange sentience of the ball of light. “I don’t have time for games,” he growled, the light growing brighter until Geralt had to shield his eyes. “Stop, all right! Fine. Looks like I have no choice and I suppose I’m to follow you.” Geralt remarked before the light disappeared into a thick mass of vines. With a final thought to what could be a grievous mistake, drawing his steel Geralt cut a path and followed.

Emerging to an area less ravaged by magic, some life still fought against the past attack. Nenneke’s strength, he realized, willed the plants to live. Searching for his guide, Geralt reflected on the mystery of Nenneke herself, given her advanced age. Yennefer believed she still lived despite the time and if that were true, she’d be well over a hundred without showing signs of advanced aging. Something in the Temple and garden needed Nenneke to survive.

As he rounded the corner of one building, his heart clenched. Seeing bare feet first, Geralt realized he’d found Nenneke, bound and still. He tripped as he neared her in his haste, quickly cutting loose the ropes from her wrists and ankles.

Not wanting to startle her, Geralt shifted to face her. “Nenneke, it’s me, Geralt. Can you hear me?” Relief flowed freely at the sound of her heartbeat and rise of her chest; she did not speak but weak nods guided him in his care. Yennefer had given Geralt potions suitable for humans should Ciri have injuries. Digging through the pack, he realized Yennefer had provided enough for at least a half dozen people. Despite his need to find Ciri, Geralt tended to the woman he’d known since he was younger. 

The sonorous explosions and rumbles emanating from all around him warned him time wouldn’t wait for sentimentality. He apologized to Nenneke promising to return once he found Ciri. As he shifted to stand, a weakened voice spoke. “I’m so sorry, Geralt. I realized too late. Ciri . . .forgive me.”

The weight of her words threatened to release emotions he’d thought long forgotten. His throat dry, Geralt croaked out a single word. “Where?”

With a shaking hand, she pointed toward the temple and responded in kind, “grotto,” before sinking back to the ground.

Geralt had forgotten true fear. The empty, sinking feeling when logic loses and emotion takes control. He found himself unable to walk, rooted to the ground, a war of wills within him. He needed to find Ciri, first and then he would make her captor suffer, but his mind wandered to a horrid possibility keeping him still. 

His illuminated guide returned, rushing forward and back to him, urging him onward. Each time he stopped, the wisp of light would surge toward him and continued. Nenneke’s words couldn’t be sympathy for her loss, he refused to accept them as such. Ciri was far too full of life and still had many years to live. Geralt fought back human emotion with memories he cherished.

_Holding onto the small bicycle Geralt helped without revealing his assistance. Ciri had insisted on a polished onyx frame rather than the white Yennefer had chosen. Even before she could ride it, Geralt painted the name chosen in block white letters. Kelpie._

_Part of the problem, Ciri refused his help. Geralt walked alongside her, holding on to the seat to balance her, and whenever she realized it was he who held her upright, Ciri would complain until Geralt let go. Within seconds, she’d wobble, turning the handlebars too fast and then fall. Ciri refused to give up, despite the scrapes and bruises on her legs and hands._

_As the hours stretched, tears traced paths down her cheeks, and still Ciri fought through every fall. When Geralt attempted to end the lesson, Ciri’s determination turned to anger. Standing over Kelpie’s handlebars, she wagged her finger and chastised the bicycle for being so stubborn. The witcher watched as her face and voice softened, asking for one last chance to prove they could do it together._

_“All right. I’m ready,” she said, exhaling as she sat, “let’s do this.”_

Geralt coughed away the strange ache settling in his chest. She’d ridden the damn thing after that and most nights Geralt had to carry Ciri to her room, so exhausted from her marathon play sessions.

The trembling beneath his feet increased in intensity the closer he ventured to the grotto. His witcher’s mind warned of any number of creatures that might cause such a disturbance, but halfway to his destination, the path remained clear.  Geralt realized the tremors had to emanate from whatever confrontation Triss and Yennefer faced.

There was a time Geralt would have raced to Yennefer’s side, but when Ciri ended up his ward, everything changed.

_Climbing out of his sleep induced stupor Geralt woke to Yennefer’s frantic voice and hands shaking his shoulder. “Geralt, wake up! She’s gone!”_

_The words barely registered, his eyes adjusting to the darkened room. “What time is it?” Geralt reached for his watch on the bedside table._

_“What the bloody hell does it matter! Ciri is gone!”_

_He’d not seen Yennefer react with such panic before, and the crystallization of her words moved him to silent action. Listening to Yennefer explain, Geralt learned Ciri had been sullen and withdrawn all day. Yennefer suspected something had occurred while Ciri visited the library, but when Yennefer attempted to discover more, Ciri refused to talk._

_Called upon to find missing loved ones more often than he cared to count, Geralt entered Ciri’s room. She’d taken the bag he’d given her from his time with the Temerian Army. Hangers littered the floor, her troll bank lay smashed, the coins removed save a few stray coins scattered here and there. “She’s running,” Geralt said, snatching his coat and harness._

_A shrill whistle called Roach to the stoop, and Geralt rode off in search of his thirteen-year-old ward. The streets of Baccala, empty thanks to the early hour and the light rain, yielded little sign of the missing girl. Without a clue how to find her, Geralt and Roach rode on, searching every possible location. Nearing a park, Roach decelerated and stopped, a sign something needed Geralt’s attention._

_He remembered the park, when she’d first arrived, Ciri often begged to climb the large statue in the center. Ilhuarraquax, the unicorn, carved from white granite proved to be Ciri’s favorite part of living in the Nilfgaardian city. Cautious steps carried Geralt further into the park when his hearing picked up on the sound of crying. Sitting under the statue, Ciri hugged her knees. Not wanting to frighten her, Geralt sat on the opposite side of the pedestal._

_She sniffled glancing over toward him. “I heard Roach.”  He hummed in response, letting Ciri take her time. She spoke with such reluctance, hesitating, “I thought maybe. .  .never mind,” she sighed._

_Gentle words, quiet and reassuring, Geralt’s attempt to draw her out. “Tell me.”_

_“It’s stupid,” she replied pointing up toward the statue, “I thought it might help me, like the stories. You know, a unicorn opened the way for the Aen Elle. Maybe it would do it for me.”_

_Geralt wondered where she’d discovered the information, but Yennefer’s earlier words answered the question. “The library.”_

_Ciri shivered. “His name is Avallac’h. He told me I have a destiny.”_

_The witcher refrained from cursing. He guessed another crackpot had found her._

_Ciri talked on. “He told me of a prophecy. Something about white light and older blood.”_

_“Elder blood.” Geralt corrected. It was time to move again. They’d found her. “Ciri, we have to go. If you see that man again, tell me right away.”_

He’d nearly lost Ciri more times than Geralt could admit; the constant shuffling her to keep one step ahead of Avallac’h and the Aen Elle. So sure Ciri’s blood would give them victory over all dimensions, they hunted a child. Eventually, Ciri fought back.

_Yennefer rested a hand against his chest. “She’s not ready to talk to you, Geralt. Be patient.”_

_He stood, rigid and angry. Ciri wasn’t a witcher. He’d already given Lambert and Eskel a piece of his mind, maybe half of his words more than just obscenities, but to take Ciri along after Hunt and Frost without telling Geralt or Yennefer? Ciri lied to him. That was the real issue. She’d claimed spending the night at Triss’ but when Triss showed up unannounced, she did not know of Ciri’s plans._

_“Patient? How is it my fault?” Seeing Ciri glance back toward the kitchen he lowered his voice. “Yen, never mind those two idiots, Ciri lied. . .to me.” He moved away, deeper into Yennefer’s kitchen. “She lied. Had Triss not shown up-”_

_Yennefer nodded interrupting him. “I know. Let me talk with her and help her understand.”_

_Unwilling to let it go, Geralt confronted Ciri, brushing past Yennefer into the living room. “You lied to me Ciri. That’s why I’m angry and why you will go back to Ellander. I can’t trust you.”_

_She stared up at him, tears pooling, but her face wore a mask of defiance. Her jaw set, she spoke in pointed words. “I’m not a child.”_

_Seventeen years old, Geralt and Yennefer hoped to protect her with Avallac’h and the Lodge at least for another year or two. The seals Yennefer created hid Ciri for months at a time, but when the magic waned, Geralt would move with Ciri to another city. “Ciri, you’re still not ready to face Hunt. Don’t grow up so fast. Let the witchers search for Hunt and Frost,” he said not missing the scowl on her face as Ciri turned from him. Resignation and understanding pushed Geralt forward to sit next to her. Neither faced the other, staring into the fireplace. “You’re right. You’re not a child, but if you want respect-”_

_Ciri tightened her hand into a fist, fingers grinding together from the effort. She didn’t want to yell at Geralt. “You don’t understand.” Anger dropped her voice to a whisper. “You don’t understand what this is like for me.” She wanted to scream, throw it all back him Geralt for taking her in the first place. Saving her again and again. She didn’t want to be anything other than herself. “You should have left me in Cintra.”_

_“No,” Geralt refused to believe Ciri would have been better off with Emhyr, “you belong here. . .with us.”_

_Pushing off the couch she turned to face him, arms flailing as she spoke. “Why? Because you can keep an eye on me in case the prophecy is true? Is that it?  I hear you talking at night. Every time we leave and find a new home, a new city. It’s my fault! You’re both just keeping me around so I don't. . .fuck everything up!”_

_“Cirilla, enough.” Geralt had never used her formal name, he’d always addressed her as she’d asked._

_She stopped, not because he used her name, but because Geralt did not raise his voice. The significance of such a small measure of affection diffused her frustrations.   “I’m sorry I lied. I thought maybe I could end this, then you and Yennefer could stop this endless shuffle from place to place.”_

_The two talked until Ciri could no longer stay awake. Geralt conceded they could work together to find Hunt and Frost and this promise seemed enough for Ciri; at least enough to sleep for the remaining hours of the night._

_Even after all the reassurances from Ciri that she would wait and work with Geralt, he remained awake, unable to sleep. Realizing his absence from the bed, Yennefer found him in front of the fire. “Geralt, come to bed.”_

_At first, he did not respond. A long sigh brought down the walls he erected years before, the lie of the emotionless witcher. “I can’t lose her, Yen.”_

The grotto before him, Geralt broke free of his memories and rushed inside. His speculation proved correct, only the grotto survived the garden’s devastation. Plants still grew from beds in the rock face, and any free space and vessel teemed with life, he listened; the expectation of sound often created a false experience and Geralt tread softly, straining to hear the one sound he craved. Butterflies, bees and tiny iridescent hummingbirds tended to the plants within, waiting for the return of their keepers.

A quick glance up to the crystallized ceiling showed no weaknesses despite the continued tremors. As he neared the worktables, a body lay motionless across the table, ashen hair mussed, covering half her face.  He called to her once, expecting a laugh from her terrible ruse; his eyes locked on her. _I can’t hear her_ , he thought racing to her side. _No pulse. No breath._ Lifting the limp body into his arms, his head filled with memories of skinned knees and shouting matches, he could barely think. “Ciri,” he breathed.

The wisp of light entered the grotto, growing brighter as Geralt clung to the determined girl who taught herself to ride a bike, and faced every difficulty in life without wavering. “I’m so sorry I failed you.”

The witcher never believed in prayer. Prayer was for the weak minded; those who couldn’t face the harsh realities of life. He’d argued with Nenneke time and again on the useless practice. _Gods don’t listen, Nenneke. They’re selfish and petty. Eventually they stop listening._ Dismissing his assertions, Geralt closed his eyes and prayed; offering anything the goddess wanted in exchange for Ciri’s life.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The discovery of Ciri at the Temple of Melitele stuns Geralt into a stupor. What happens next is unexpected and changes everything.

Ch 16

Even a witcher can be wrong; Geralt conceded that point. Ciri had no pulse moments ago; somehow, the wisp of light revived her. He didn’t understand what had happened, but Ciri hugged him back; her warmth, her strength all of it as he remembered. When she tried to let go, he held her tighter, making sure it wasn’t a trick of his mind.   
  
Her muffled voice and tapping hand on his back confirmed it. Ciri lived. “Geralt, please,” Ciri wriggled free of his crushing hug. “Well,” she said with a light laugh, “take that Avallac’h! It worked.” A slight hesitation from Ciri focused Geralt’s attention. He watched her ease from the table and attempt to stand. Wobbling from the effort,  Geralt reached out to steady her. “Only I’m a little weak,” she said, “possibly that was a bit more than I should have tried.” She glanced up, bright eyes catching the shock on his face. “You. . .wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat or drink, would you?”   
  
Speechless, he handed his pack to her.   
  
“Excellent!” Ciri said, digging through the bag. “No food though and I’m starved.” She pulled out a few healing draughts and drank them, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sorry. Manners.” She stared at him her brow wrinkling. “You’re awfully quiet, Geralt. Is there a problem?”   
  
He coughed. “Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon,” he said, the first time he’d ever used her full name, “where in the fuck have you been for two years?”   
  
Raising her eyebrows in surprise, Ciri hummed. “The dreaded full name. So, this is serious then.” 

 “Serious?” Geralt couldn’t see how she made light of the situation. “Ciri, do you know what is happening?”

“Well, by the sound of it, Yennefer and perhaps Triss are currently fighting with the witch who thought to use me as bait. I can’t leave the grotto. There’s some kind of barrier, and now I think on it, I wonder if you’re stuck too.” She tested her legs once more; finding her strength returning, she stood. “Shall we test the theory?”

Eager to leave, Geralt’s long strides carried him out of the grotto and back in. “Enough, let’s go.” However, when Ciri tried, an invisible force held her back. 

“Told you, but then what do I know?” Ciri sighed and walked deeper inside the grotto, Geralt following her. "The spirit projection was a happy accident,” she explained, “Avallac’h tried to teach me how to do the projection and I’d not been able to do so before.” She paused before continuing. “When I’d felt the portals open, I had to find a way. Maybe this time I needed it to happen.” Ciri sat on the worktable.

She’d been weak after her fight with Frost and woken elsewhere. Assuming she’d crossed worlds, Ciri struggled to find her way home. “Several weeks ago, I arrived here quite by accident. I could barely stand, and Nenneke aided me.”

Nenneke insisted Ciri rest before contacting anyone, tending to her injuries and weakness. It was during this stay that Ciri realized something had gone wrong at the Temple.  “Annetka, the witch, seems to think you killed her father, an herbalist during the second war. Now I tried to reassure her that Geralt of Rivia is many things but a killer of innocent-“

Geralt remembered the little girl. “Not Annetka, Anna. She said she was called Anna.”

“What?” Ciri asked, surprised at the admission. Geralt joined her and explained.

“Anna. Her father refused to hand over his stores to the Nilfgaardian army and he was thrown in prison. I promised to find him,” Geralt explained.

Ciri had never heard the story. “What happened?”

“Her father wasn’t at the prison. Berrant was reserved for Temerian prisoners and deserters.” Shaking his head, Geralt admitted he failed to find the little girl’s father.

A hint of a memory crystallized for Ciri. “Berrant prison? But that’s where you met Yennefer.”

He nodded. “Yes. When the Temerian Militia bombed the prison, I helped her escape. I swear Anna’s father was not held at Berrant.”

Geralt’s medallion hummed; Ciri meeting his eyes, she whispered. “The fighting stopped.” Geralt pointed inside his coat. She knew he carried a firearm and reached for it. Geralt stumbled as Ciri pulled the hammer back and pointed the gun at him. “Move to your left.”

Geralt soon realized they weren’t alone. When he turned to face the grotto’s entrance, Geralt was struck at the woman’s resemblance to Yennefer.  Her dark hair at first glance could be mistaken for the sorceress, but to Geralt’s eye, it was a poor imitation. “You look nothing like Yennefer.”

The imposter frowned, seeing the witcher within the grotto. “How did you get in? The spell keeps all living creatures out.”  A cloud of red smoke soared through the treetops. Regis would find them soon enough. Geralt needed to keep the woman talking.

“I’m a witcher, not a human. Maybe you aren’t as clever as you think?” Taking slow and deliberate steps toward her, he wondered why she didn’t use magic to repel him. “You’re too weak, aren’t you? Nothing left. Had you studied, maybe.  Am I right, Anna?” Using the name she’d given him all those years ago, infuriated her.

“You don’t get to use that name.” She spat. “Murderer. You left my father to die in that prison! Rescued your witch whore and left him to the Nilfgaardian army!”  Her focus stayed with Geralt, allowing Regis to move closer undetected.

Geralt raised his hands,  keeping them close shifting closer to Anna, forcing her out into the garden toward Regis. “Your father wasn’t at the prison. I searched, even after the bombing ended. He’d never been brought to Berrant.” Geralt gestured around them. “All this destruction, deaths of innocents for what?”

Pressing her palms against her temples, Anna battled against a pain in her head. “To take everything from you,” she spat her words pressing harder, “as you did from me.”

Ciri whispered, knowing Geralt could hear. “She’s afflicted, help her.”

 _Help her_ , he thought, _four murders to implicate Yennefer and holding Ciri here?_

Her voice louder this time, more insistent Ciri called out to him, “Geralt.”

He’d have to hope Axii would work, it wasn’t always reliable with those capable of magic. Geralt guessed given her weakened condition, he had a chance. Drawing the inverted triangle, he waited as Anna’s twisted expression relaxed, her eyes unfocused. She took deep, even breaths and stood still.

Seeing the change in the woman, Ciri handed Geralt the dimeritium cuffs from his bag, and with a gentle hand secured Anna’s wrists. The dimeritium would prevent Anna from using her magic and allow Geralt to deliver her to Roche clearing Yennefer. 

The force holding Ciri captive within the grotto dissipated, allowing her to leave. Before Geralt could speak, Ciri teleported though the overgrowth and out of sight.

Shrugging, Regis stared in the direction of Ciri’s departure. Within seconds, shouts of Ciri’s name and joyful screaming elicited a soft laugh from the higher vampire. “Apparently, they are mildly moved by Ciri’s reappearance.”

Too many things required attention for a reunion. Nenneke required help; he’d have to get Anna to Roche in Novigrad and then figure out what Dijkstra wanted. There wasn’t time to stop.  Ciri returned to the grotto joined by Triss and Yennefer, the three requesting to stay behind and help Nenneke.

Roche would need convincing; Geralt understood it would take more than just his word to prove Anna’s guilt. “Triss and Regis will stay, but I need both of you with me.”

He explained Roche’s fixation on Yennefer’s guilt; Ciri’s word and reappearance would be the most convincing. Dijkstra and his men would present a problem; Geralt had to arrive close enough to Roche’s compound to avoid detection from Dijkstra’s men. If Sigismund Dijsktra learned of Geralt’s arrival in Novigrad, he’d insist on a meeting and Geralt didn’t want to see Dijkstra quiet yet. “Yen, how close can you get us to Roche’s place with a portal?”

A slight uplift to her lips hid a burgeoning smile. “Did I hear you correctly? A portal?”

A grumbling sigh shared his waning patience. “Can we skip the teasing and give me a straight answer?”

“There’s no reason to be rude, Geralt,” Yen said, “to answer your question, I can bring us relatively close. I am simply surprised that you, Geralt, are asking to travel by a means we know to be your least favorite.”

He’d never trusted portals; not the structured gateways nor those conjured. Geralt understood the instability of these magical gateways; stories of conjurers arriving in pieces always occupied his thoughts before stepping through. Yet, Yen, Triss and Ciri never thought twice, or so it seemed.

Yennefer was right, but delivering Anna to Roche necessitated the use of a portal.

“Don’t get used to it, Yen. For Roche to believe the truth, all of us have to arrive together. Let’s go.”

A few words in the Elder speech opened the swirling gateway, allowing them to pass through to Novigrad. When they emerged into a back alley, the Axii sign had run its course, leaving Geralt with a struggling feral witch to lead toward the main building of Roche’s compound.

Using the sign once more would defeat the purpose; he’d need Roche to see how volatile Anna could be. The dimeritium could keep her magic under control, and Geralt knew Roche had cells constructed of the ore for the same purpose. Obscenities and curses fell from Anna’s lips; her attempts to pull free failed as he led her up the rear steps.

Confusion reigned inside. Ves attempted to arrest Yennefer ignoring Geralt’s words of protest. Had it not been for Ciri’s calming words and assurances, the situation would have escalated. Once Anna had been escorted to the cells in the basement, Roche led Geralt and the others to his office.

“It is good to see you well, Cirilla. No doubt, those closest to you are more relieved,” he offered, eyes locked on the witcher. “You, my friend, owe me an explanation.” Ciri stepped forward, but Yennefer’s gentle touch stopped Ciri from interfering.

The game never changed with Roche; vague statements meant to confuse or disorient another to exact any number of responses worked with most, but not Geralt. “I delivered your murderess, so I believe our business is concluded.”

A slight tightening of Roche’s jaw signaled Geralt’s redirection had the desired effect. “Wolf. My men say Letho of Gulet arrived not long after you left. What game are you playing? Why Novigrad?”

The last time they’d spoken Letho alluded to one of Geralt’s company working against him. It had to be either Roche or Dijkstra. He wondered how Letho had been so careless.  Geralt said nothing, feeling both Yennefer and Ciri’s eyes on him.

Roche, taking Geralt’s silence as an admission of guilt, continued. “First Lambert arrives in Novigrad and now Letho, tell me- what are you witchers plotting?”

The news surprised Geralt, Keira Metz had mentioned that Lambert had wanted to go to Novigrad, but Roche’s question confirmed it. Ciri defended Geralt, calling Roche’s loyalty into question. “Is this how you reward your friends? Geralt found the person responsible while you sat back ready to accuse him of what precisely?” Yennefer reached for Ciri’s arm, but she moved toward the desk avoiding Yennefer. Realizing her slight, she turned back to smile and nod; proving Ciri understood to temper her words. “Captain Roche,” Ciri adopted a more amicable tone, “forgive me, I’ve been away for some time only to find that witch had taken over the Temple of Melitele. You must excuse my rudeness.” Ciri waited for Roche’s acknowledgement before continuing. “Perhaps I misunderstood, but it sounded like an accusation against Geralt.”

Clearing his throat, Roche’s narrowed gaze landed on Geralt. “In a manner, it was.  I expect _my friend_ to explain.“

Gerald wasn’t paying attention, he stared through Roche thinking through the problem. He needed to find Letho.  Reaching for the phone on Roche’s desk, the witcher ignored the protestations and threats, dialing through to hatch a perfect plan.  A cryptic conversation revealed Geralt planned to arrive in Oxenfurt within a few hours and expected Zoltan to wait up for him. The handset replaced, Geralt instructed Yennefer and Ciri to teleport to Dandelion’s club in Oxenfurt.

“We aren’t finished here, Wolf.” Roche stood, crossing his arms. “I could arrest you on suspicion of collusion.”

The threat was real enough. Roche could do whatever he wanted, but Geralt had to try to find out what Letho had discovered without alerting too many of the players. “You won’t Vernon and here’s why. You want answers. I know how to get them, but I need a favor.”

“A favor?” Vernon Roche huffed as he spoke. “Fine, what is it you need?”

The witcher’s hesitation stemmed from the usual reaction Vernon Roche had to a certain elf. “Iorveth is somewhere in Novigrad. Play nice and find him.”

“What could you want with that simple son of a bitch? Is he part of this?”

Ushering Yennefer and Ciri to the door, Geralt turned slightly. “Please. There. Politeness. Now find him,” he said, following Ciri out onto the street.  He waited, scanning the street for any stragglers or possible unwanted attention; Yennefer’s incantation and portal would attract attention in the waning light of day. When Ciri stepped into the portal, Geralt whistled, long and sharp, wondering if this would be the one time Roach wouldn’t answer. A lone headlight in the darkening streets revealed that once more Roach defied logic.

“One of these days, maybe I’ll figure out how in the hell you do that.” Geralt sat astride the seat and explained their destination, allowing Roach to carry him away toward Oxenfurt. Leaving Anna with Roche and Ves had been the best decision. Geralt didn’t approve of Ves’ methods, but he expected they’d extract enough proof to bring the disturbed woman before the Magistrate. Her goal had been to punish him, but her choice of victim, the desire to impersonate Yennefer down to her perfume and well -known style of dress suggested something far better planned than simple revenge. Anna had to have had help. Knowledgeable help with details she couldn’t possibly know.

Anna had never met Yennefer, or Ciri. Yet she seemed to have exact details of Ciri’s path to Frost, choosing her victims based on those who had _wronged_ Ciri in some way. She sent packages to Yen and Triss. There was more to this, and while Geralt had a hunch, he’d need help to flush out the one responsible. Before he met with Zoltan, Geralt had to stop at The Alchemy Inn.

The late hour meant only the most hard-edged of the city remained, and the presence of twenty different motorcycles scattered in every free space around the tavern confirmed his guess to be right. Olgierd and the Immortals were exactly where Geralt had hoped. Wild laughter and bawdy songs poured out the door as he entered. Loud shouts of the witcher’s name drowned out any doubt of the level of drunkenness Geralt expected.  When the shouting subsided, Geralt asked for Olgierd. “Where’s the boss?”

Half dozen arms rose, pointing to the side room. Adela, never one for politeness, grabbed his hand and tried to yank Geralt toward the room finding him impossible to move. “Oy, Puss Peepers! What gives!”

Realizing she meant to guide him, Geralt helped her back to her chair. “Thanks Adela, I think I’ll be fine on my own.”  More laughter and taunts filled the tavern as Geralt’s politeness silenced the usually outspoken Adela, giving him a chance to skip lengthy alcohol fueled conversations and find Olgierd.

The leader of the Immortals had quite an appetite for games, especially gwent; Olgierd sought challengers whenever he could, an obsession Geralt wanted to exploit.

The contrast of quiet reverence in the side room compared to the insanity Geralt had left reflected in the two player’s sighs each time the noise swelled. The board and tally told the story, Olgierd and his opponent tied with a few cards left to play. His opponent had stacked two heavy lines, multipliers upon multipliers creating a solid line of melee cards, and an impressive line of ranged cards looking to win on sheer strength.  Viewing the board as an outsider, Geralt found the flaw. The Monster deck offered multiple muster cards to stack the line, but a single weather card could turn the tide to Olgierd’s favor. Geralt knew from painful experience, Olgierd never spared an opponent; if the opportunity to destroy them rested in his hand, the shrewd leader of the Immortals would wait and attack at the last possible moment. Olgierd didn’t like to lose.  

The game of gwent remained one of the few traditions of the past not forsaken in favor of progress. Played by most, from the child to the oldest and wisest, the game continued to captivate and challenge players at all levels.

This was not a random game played by amateurs, judging by the piles of bills at the end of the table. Each player had broken with traditional rules, betting a single card placed face down on the table near the betting pile. These were street rules. Betting money a common practice, but what Olgierd sought were rare cards, and that bet bought you a seat across from Olgierd Von Everec.  Tricking Olgierd into a game with a bet of a low-level card would meet with swift and deadly force. Cheating the Immortals was never a good idea.

The players were tied, one match to each- the third and final round would decide the winner.  Olgierd put down an impenetrable fog wiping out the Monster ranged line, and his opponent countered with a weather clearing card grinning, his tally restored. Without glancing up, Olgierd gave away nine points to the opposing melee line, the card emblazoned with a wide opened eye. Spies. Nilfgaardian decks had a few and in this case, the grant of two cards could put Olgierd ahead of the monster deck.

“Bastard,” his opponent spat, looking at the one remaining card to Olgierd’s two. Geralt understood a draw was nothing more than chance and waited to see what would be revealed next.  The man placed his final card on the board, a Leshen, adding ten more points to his total. Olgierd studied the board, rubbing his beard before laying down a low-level ranged card -the two points offered little impact to Olgierd’s total. A quick glance to Geralt and the smallest hint of a smirk divulged one final play, and knowing Olgierd, he’d won.

Geralt noted the shifting stance of the few members of the Immortals within the game room. They expected trouble, confirming Geralt’s suspicion. Olgierd’s slow and deliberate motions lifted the final card, carrying it obscured over the board. His opponent’s eyes widened as the Biting Frost card cleared the melee line of thirty points giving Olgierd the win.  

“Cheap win, Von Everec,” the man said, “not worth the bet.” Reaching toward the betting pile, the man tried to take back his card. In most situations, Geralt would never bother to get involved in a dispute over a bet, but he needed Olgierd’s help. The witcher stepped up to the table, careful not to upend the pile.

“You lost. Leave it and go.” The low warning carried enough weight the man didn’t continue, pulling back his hand and huffing as he left the room. Geralt, curious as to the bet turned over the offered card. “Dagon,” he said, tossing the card toward Olgierd, “looks like another counterfeit. I’ve got two of those myself. I don’t think the original is still in circulation.”

Nodding in agreement, Olgierd handed the duplicate to his associated. “That’s my fourth. Everyone thinks they have the original.” Leaning back in his chair, Olgierd studied Geralt. “So, care to tell me what you need, witcher, or are you ready to lose once again,” he said, inviting Geralt to sit.

“Can I trust you?” Geralt’s question brought Olgierd’s fist to the table.

“That hurts, Geralt. After everything - you need to ask?” Olgierd leaned forward. “I owe you a debt, which can never be repaid. I swore you’d have my help–in her name.” Olgierd’s wife died under a curse of her own making. Geralt had been the only witcher willing to risk himself to release her.

“This could get ugly,” the witcher didn’t elaborate, “and I need help to fix a mess before we get started.”

Olgierd didn’t need explanations, if Geralt came for help, he’d have it. “The Immortals are yours. When do we leave?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay, chapters will be more forthcoming.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt sees a possible plan unfold, but in order to continue, those most precious to him must be left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a darker vision of the Northern Realms. A black and white image of the players in a noir universe, where cynicism is king and in order to win you might lose everything. The characters are altered to fit within this idea and will diverge from canon.

 

Staring up at the witcher, Zoltan scratched his head. “You want a gwent tourney held at Kaer Morhen.”

For the third time, Geralt nodded as Zoltan continued to struggle with the plan. “Yes. That a problem?”

“Aye, there’s a few,” the dwarf said, “first, and no offense . . . Kaer Morhen is a shithole, thanks to you.” Ignoring the annoyed sigh from Geralt, Zoltan continued. “Second? Something so exclusive is going to require security, and not just any thugs-real shitkickers, iffin you know what I mean.”

“Got it covered on both fronts, and they’re on the way now to start work.” Geralt didn’t need to share that the Immortals were likely to heap everything out the windows or burn anything they couldn’t clear out to make room.

Squinting at Geralt, Zoltan waited before delivering his next line. “Fine. Third. You’re keeping secrets and I don’t like it.”  The witcher shoved a sheet of paper filled with names into the dwarf’s hands. “Eh, what’s this?” Zoltan’s lips moved as he read the names under his breath. “Oh, now I know you’ve gone insane! We’ll need a whole bleedin’ army to stop this group from killing each other!”

“You’re not wrong,” Geralt said, heading to the stairs. “When I know we’re ready, you’ll extend the invitations.”  Yennefer waited for him in their room upstairs, but Geralt couldn’t stop for sentimentality and affections. Olgierd and the Immortals would prepare Kaer Morhen, Zoltan could handle the guest list, leaving Geralt to his plan. _Whatever the plan is, I’m still not convinced this will work_ , he thought. “Back later.” Zoltan waved him off still muttering as Geralt reached the front door.

Even after two years apart, the witcher recognized the sound of Ciri on the stairs. “You’re leaving?” Stopping just before the last step, Ciri fidgeted with her hair. “I thought . . .but I’ve only just returned.” She stared at the window, and then back to Geralt. “What about Yennefer?”

Resolve weakened at her watery gaze; for her, Geralt could delay. “Ciri, I’ll be back. I want to hear the whole story of what happened when you left.” He stepped closer, careful not to given in to her worry.  “I promise there will be time. There’s something at play in the Realms. Anna was one piece. If I don’t end it, and I mean really end whatever game someone is playing, others could be hurt or worse.”

Thinking for a moment, a tentative smile and her familiar eagerness returned. “Then let me help you.”

Her first few steps he said nothing, debating how to pull Ciri into his plans. Before she could reach him, Geralt stopped her with an outstretched hand. “No. As much as I want to say yes, it’s better if you stay.”

Her mouth dropped open, and catching her reaction, Ciri bit down on her bottom lip. She met his eyes holding them in a long, pained look before glancing away. “But I thought,” she started to speak and then stopped. “You don’t trust me.” The finality to her statement was too great to ignore.

Geralt pulled out a chair at the table closest to him. “Sit,” he said. Despite her furrowed brow and darkened mood, she complied. Sitting across from her, Geralt searched for the best words. “Anna killed four people and tried to frame Yennefer.”

“Right.“ Ciri agreed, “she’s in custody, and it’s over-right?”

 _Far from it_ , he thought, wondering how to explain it all. “I don’t think so, Ciri. There’s more to this and its too many little things for me to ignore.” He reached for her hand. “I can’t risk you and Yen more than I already have. I need you to watch over Dandelion and the others.”

“Geralt.” Ciri’s tone reminded him of the numerous occasions that Yennefer never questioned him outright; a simple inflection revealed her displeasure.

He stood. “I promise if any of this gets too deep, you’ll be the first to know.” _Liar_ , he thought.

Ciri nodded in slow and deliberate movements, agreeing to his promise. “I’ll hold you to that.”

His lie complete, Geralt winked at Ciri before leaving. Oxenfurt’s damp night added more weight to his heavy thoughts. This was no game, each of the players deadly as adversaries. Pushing his darkening thoughts away the witcher’s boots scuffed against the slick pavement toward his ride. Roach waited at the curb outside, Geralt still unsure where to head first.

The slight crunch of gravel behind Geralt exposed the presence of another. A clack of sticks in a hollow space disclosed his shadow’s name. The sound of arrow shafts falling against a low hung quiver, the rustle of heavy fabric and creak of leather strops favored by an elf so unwilling to enter the modern age, he clung to old ways- could only belong to one known to Geralt. “Iorveth. You’re slipping; carrying that damn quiver around; your arrows gave you away. I’m glad Roche found you.”

A soft chuckle grew to a laugh as the elf stepped out of the side alley. “Gwynbleidd.”  Iorveth’s measured steps carried him into the street light. He’d never altered his appearance, still clad in the garb of his band, a red cap covered his head and the right side of his face. “Maybe it is you who is slipping,” he said, scanning the street. “As for Roche, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The whoreson’s likely still searching. What do you need from me?” Geralt smirked at the elf’s continued used of age old slurs.

Unwilling to discuss the details where others might hear, Geralt chose a location. “The Academy in one hour. Do you remember the way?”

Even the large scar stretching the right side of Iorveth’s face couldn’t hide the sneer. “Did you really ask me if I needed directions?”

“Seemed a valid question. After all, you still dress like you’re going to some deranged costume party,” Geralt said adding, “you know this is 1946, right?”

The elf’s dismissive gesture toward Geralt’s crumpled clothing followed by a scoff, divulging Iorveth’s opinion. “If looking like a pile of dirty laundry on its fifth day is the human’s idea of progress, I’ll keep to mine, thank you. One hour.”

The ride to the Academy, while short, renewed Geralt’s concerns surrounding Yennefer and Ciri. He’d plan later with both Letho and Eskel. Letho cared little for Yennefer, but like most of his fellow witchers would step in to defend Ciri if she needed help. Pulling up to the still unmanned guard booth, the revelation that more manpower would be needed at Kaer Morhen necessitated getting inside without delay.

He wondered if the intercom phone from the guardhouse to the faculty room remained active since his last visit. Lifting the handset, two short rings in his ear confirmed it.

“Hello Geralt,” Shani’s voice carried through the phone, “the door’s open. Meet us in the library.” The line disconnected before he could inquire further.

“Us?” Geralt spoke aloud, hurried strides carrying him toward the entrance. “Who the hell is _us_?” he asked himself. Iorveth traveled on foot, and even if he’d taken to the rooftops as he often preferred, the possibility of arriving before Geralt seemed slim. He cut through the halls, the turns and passages so familiar Geralt arrived still lost in thought.

The sound of multiple voices laughing carried through the closed door. He believed Shani far too cautious to allow anyone into the Academy at this late hour.  His medallion hummed as he approached, further sharpening his awareness. Although heavy, the door gave way with minimal effort, revealing Shani’s guests. Regis and Yennefer. “Yen? You were asleep.”

With a quick glance to Geralt, Yennefer’s attention returned to the books in front of her. “Yes. You’re quite right. When you hadn’t returned after the first hour, I remembered the _Llyfr na n-athruithe_. The book you’d mentioned in Velen. I needed to see if it was here; Triss was not able to enter the library when she arrived. Imagine my delight to find Regis here, after such a long absence.” 

Yennefer’s explanation didn’t match the truth. “It was you who mentioned it, Yen. What difference does it make if Anna is waiting for the Magistrate in Roche’s compound?” Geralt stared confused. _Either Yennefer is messing with me, or there’s something not quite right._

Triss and Eskel had traveled to the Academy after leaving Velen. To further distort the situation, Yennefer had accompanied Geralt along with Regis and Triss to Ellander the previous day. Geralt looked to Regis for an explanation.

The higher vampire wandered closer to the fireplace. “You’ll be pleased to note, the priestess rested comfortably when I left. Nenneke extended her thanks to you and asked that I stop and visit with Shani for assistance with a few remedies. After all, the opportunity to meet such a gifted healer,” he offered gesturing toward Shani, “how could I refuse?”

 _They’ve known each other for years_ , Geralt thought, finally seeing the shifting gaze of Shani passing from Regis to Yennefer and back again. _Shani is never this guarded with Regis. She’s seen him as a mentor and friend- unless I’m missing something here, Regis and Yen are altering the truth. Why?_ Geralt paused as understanding gripped his witcher senses _. Regis doesn’t play games, and Yen is more direct than anyone. This is about Shani. What’s the problem?_

Only one conclusion fit the situation. Shani had to be a doppler in disguise. Yen and Regis tried to grab his attention without revealing the truth to the imposter. Geralt leapt across the chairs slamming Shani into the wall. “Where is she!” The body against his proved far too strong to be Shani, morphing to reveal Yennefer’s face smiling back at him. Geralt stifled a groan at the revelation.

From behind, he felt Yennefer’s magic prime as she called out in disgust. “Now that is crossing a line!” Hearing her speak, Geralt tightened his grip. “Where is Shani?”

Yennefer’s voice spoke from the Doppler’s mouth. “Your witch whore was really the worst to impersonate. She talks as if she has a stick up her arse. The little librarian almost didn’t buy my act. Lucky for her she did.” The Yennefer Doppler laughed, her voice deepening to a rich, rumbling. Her features elongated and widened to reveal an exact duplicate of Geralt. The Doppler tried to break free of Geralt’s grasp, but the witcher pinned his double against the wall, his hand wrapped around the imposter’s neck.

Surprised by his mirror image, Geralt turned to Yennefer and Regis. “Damn. I’ve let myself go.”

Glancing toward Regis, the scowl on Yennefer’s face accentuated her displeasure. “Not now, Geralt!”” 

Yennefer could not have known that while Geralt spoke, his grip tightened around the Doppler’s neck slowly depriving him of oxygen. A witcher can hold his breath, but not for an indefinite period of time, eventually, he needs to breathe. Not so for the Doppler, who clutched wildly at Geralt’s ever tightening grip.

Joining Geralt at his right Regis offered his opinion. “I believe our friend is feeling a bit blue, given the waning color in his lips. Perhaps he might be more amenable to a friendly discussion in place of a crushed neck?"

The Doppler’s eyes widened as he tried to nod in agreement. Not willing to release his grip fully, Geralt loosened his hold, but did not remove his hand.

 Regis stepped back nodding once. “Very well. Where is the young lady?”

The imposter glanced to both his inquisitors, stuttering as he spoke. “P-p-piss off!”

 "Wrong answer,” Geralt said, constricting his fingers once more. “One more chance.”

Yennefer pushed past Regis, hands glowing with building magic. She glared at the Doppler, her eyes narrowing. “No. There will be no more chances.” Lifting her hands up, Yennefer intoned words Geralt had never heard before.

The Doppler’s horror at her ministrations set him babbling, offering the location of the key ring he’d taken from Shani and the locked storage room where he’d shoved her hours before.  When Geralt retrieved the key ring, Yennefer dropped her hands and straightened her blouse. “Now, was that so difficult? Honestly, the two of you are terrible at interrogations.” She fluffed her hair and took the keys from Geralt. “Well? Dispose of him and come along please.”

Geralt and Regis decided to use the set of silver cuffs to restrain the Doppler until they could deliver him to Roche. Regis would watch over him until Geralt and Yennefer returned from their inspection of the library’s storage areas. “You going to tell me what that little show was all about?” Geralt wondered what Yennefer planned to do if the Doppler hadn’t folded.

She sighed as she spoke, “nothing, really. That was merely an illumination spell and the words utter nonsense.” She smirked, “but our friend had no idea, did he?”

In her words, Geralt found the opening he feared wouldn’t come.  Brushing off Ciri was one thing, but convincing Yen he didn’t want her around would be key to his plan.  Turning to face her, Geralt’s stoic expression and flat tone sought to anger her. “Looked damned convincing to me.”  He knew his words struck as she pursed her lips.

“And what exactly do you mean, Geralt? Your tone is not appreciated, I was attempting to help, and you will pardon my rudeness, but I believe I succeeded.” Yennefer’s reaction revealed he’d found the right nerve; he felt no joy in his act, but to protect those he loved, he needed both Yen and Ciri out of his way. Neither would allow him to continue if they understood.

Knowing how she detested dismissals of any kind, Geralt waved her off. “No lectures, I’m not in the mood. Go back to the club. You should be watching over Ciri not getting in my way.” Leaving her to find Shani, Geralt ignored her Yennefer’s repeated calls.

“Geralt, pretending you cannot hear me mere yards away is an insult.” Yennefer’s patience waned with each hurried step.

The sharp edge to her voice and the way she huffed in an attempt to catch up to him, disturbed him but to succeed in pushing her away, Geralt had to take his behavior to an even deeper level. Stopping short, he apologized silently, knowing what he planned to say next was cruel and the furthest from the truth. _I’m so sorry Yen._

“Geralt, answer me!”

He turned on his heel and faced her. “I don’t owe you a damned thing. You’ve lied to me from the start of this whole shit storm.” She stepped back shocked at his anger. “Using Ciri to push us back together? Pathetic.” The sting of his words loosened her expression, revealing more than he was prepared to see. “What about Radovid? Made a habit of visiting him in his private rooms didn’t you? I saw the photos; Dijkstra _showed_ me everything, Yen.” Geralt had never known Yen to back down from an argument, but he held on to one final play. Before she could respond he hit her with the only words he could be sure would send her far away. “You know what, Yen? I made a mistake. It _is_ too late for us.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer out of the picture, Geralt concludes his business at the Academy and plans to meet Iorveth. He hopes that one more arrives with important news. In their secret meeting, Geralt learns who has been working against him from the beginning.

Ch 18

 _This is wrong_ , Lucyna thought, _the witcher hasn’t stopped drinking since he walked in_. She watched the witcher’s companion, an elf scanning the bar while attempting to tend to his friend. Each time he’d try to take another bottle away, the witcher slapped the offended grasp. _I can’t do it_ , she decided, _I’ll go to my sister in Vizima; delivery trucks are easy enough to flag down_.  She read the pain, the desire to escape – he was no criminal. Someone had broken his heart and the man called Geralt sought to forget in the depths of the bottles littering his table.

Lucyna’s task had been simple. Lure the witcher from the Alchemy to a house nearby with a promise of company. Once there, she was free to go and would be paid for her time. Lucyna quickly scribbled a note of warning.

_Eyes everywhere. Take the witcher and go. They come for him._

She wanted no part of the plan even though she suspected they were being watched. She’d have to be convincing if Lucyna hoped to see the next day. Sauntering over to the elf, a clear scowl crossed his face.

“Away. We have nothing for you.”

She swallowed hard, mustering her most honeyed voice. Stroking his hand, she placed her note in the elf’s palm closing his hand around it. “Should you change your mind?”  She leaned close to his scarf-covered ear, hoping he could hear. “Survival is my trade tonight.”  She tapped his fist before moving apart, wriggling her fingers in a farewell before Lucyna’s worried steps carried her out into the night.

The ever-growing pile of empty bottles in front of Geralt prompted Iorveth to close the door. “You were right,” the elf offered, facing Geralt. “We’re under scrutiny from someone, the woman you noticed confirmed it.” Tossing the paper onto the table, Iorveth sat across from Geralt. “So we have eyes on us.”

Geralt nodded as he read the crumpled paper. He’d been drinking apple cider for hours after he’d noticed the blonde following them into the Alchemy Inn. Not his preferred choice of drink, but necessary to remain focused. “What’s the matter Iorveth, she wasn’t pretty enough to catch your attention?”

The elf scoffed. “I wouldn’t sink to that, believe me. I’ll never understand how you humans sell yourselves for so little.” Gesturing to the note he continued, “it seems the human decided against whatever she was hired to do.”

The witcher decided against contradicting Iorveth’s superior sensibilities by remaining silent about the few brothels that served as home to a few non-human and rather gifted elven females. Instead, he confirmed Iorveth’s suspicions. “Oldest trick in the Realms,” Geralt said, “I was likely meant to follow her to an abandoned home, and find an ambush waiting on me.” Geralt stretched, excusing himself for a moment, when Iorveth followed, the witcher held out his hand. “I’m a big boy and can go all by myself without an escort. ”

Geralt left Iorveth in the private room. A cursory glance confirmed no one followed him up the stairs.  He’d hurt Yennefer, and while he tried to justify his actions for her protection, this time the separation felt different-final.

_“You know what, Yen? I made a mistake. It is too late for us.” Her gasp clutched at his heart, knowing the words cut deep._

_She stared unblinking, her mouth opened once without a sound. Meeting his eyes, Geralt read Yen’s pain. “I thought. . .we,” she paused taking a deep breath, he watched as a veil of indifference descended, removing Yen and replacing her with the sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg. A simple motion to straighten her jacket underlined the change.   “Had you been honest with me, you could have saved me the trip here, Geralt.” She turned away and coughed._

_Closing his eyes, he hoped her strong enough to channel her feelings back at him, anger over sadness. Knowing her well, Yennefer did as expected, an accusatory hand pointed at Geralt’s chest. “This time you go too far. If solitude is what you wish, it is yours. If Cirilla will agree, I will take her to Skellige.” Turning from him, Yennefer took several steps from Geralt before turning to face him again. Angered steps echoed from boot heels against stone until they stood inches apart. “If you crush the tiniest piece of her spirit, you will answer to me.”_

_A final search of his blank expression yielded nothing, sending her huffing into the hall. Not bothering to warn him, she opened a portal and left._

Shaking his head at the memory, Geralt realized he wasn’t alone.  “Can’t even take a leak without someone bugging me.”

Two men blocked the door, both bigger than he. “Going somewhere, witcher?”

Geralt rolled his shoulders. “Yes, out. Through you.”

The two laughed, stepping closer to the witcher. “We’ve got a message for you.”

Before he could ready himself, the door crashed into the two, sending one off balance into the row of sinks, the other lunging toward Geralt. The hulking figure standing at the door took in the small men’s room.  The dim lights illuminated enough of the man’s face for Geralt to see Letho blocking the exit.

“You’re late, Letho.” Geralt grabbed his assailant, landing a heavy punch to the man’s gut. 

Crossing his arms, Letho ignored the second assailant rising to his feet. “And you’re sloppy. Been here for hours, watched two of these guys try to make off with the girl who warned you. They’re dead. She’s fine.” At the mention of their comrade’s deaths, the two tried to back away. “Nah, too late for that. Can’t have you talking about us.”

Geralt needed one of them alive. “Letho wait. I need one, that’s all.”

“Never thought you swung that way, Wolf. Fine.” Fear gripped the two, both offering information in exchange for their lives.  “I know what information I need to hear, you’d better get back to the elf before he stages a coup.”

Letho wasn’t kidding. The longer Iorveth had to endure the company of humans, the more likely he was to revolt and take prisoners.  A quick scan of the main floor revealed no sign of any concerns; the patrons drank, played gwent and chatted oblivious of the minor scuffle. The same could not be said for Iorveth.  He paced inside the room, muttering to himself.

“Easy, friend.” Geralt offered, stepping inside.

“Easy?” Dropping his voice to a whisper, Iorveth’s practiced calm failed him. “You have a guess at what is happening here, and you disappear? Radovid is dead.  While I do not mourn the bastard, he was no king of mine, there is danger at play and you do nothing.”

Falling into a chair, Geralt waited for the rant to finish. “Letho is questioning two men upstairs; I doubt they’ll live too much longer.”

Muttering more curses, Iorveth slipped out of the room. Letho had a tendency to clean up his messes in such a way that no one would ever link the witchers to the disappearances.  Despite Iorveth’s concerns, Geralt trusted Letho. With Yen and Ciri hopefully on their way to Skellige, there’s was only one more missing piece-Lambert.

When Geralt retreated to Kaer Morhen after Ciri’s disappearance, Lambert arrived unannounced four months after she vanished.

_“Geralt!” Lambert yelled from the main hall, his grating voice carrying through the empty halls. “Damn you, Wolf! Geralt!”_

_Through the previous night’s alcohol induced haze, Geralt trudged down the stairs, stumbling once. The door from the stairwell out in the kitchens fell from the last connected hinge sending the rotted door to the floor. Using the wall to stand, Geralt’s grumbling complaint carried little force. “The fuck do you want, Lambert?”_

_Defiance stood strong, arms crossed Lambert balanced his strength with his anger. Scoffing, he glared. “The fuck do I want? Fuck you!”_

_“Nice talking to you Lambert. You know the way out.” Geralt turned from him to return upstairs. Even in his daze, Geralt heard the yell and approaching footfalls heading toward him; his reaction time slowed, Lambert’s shoulder connected with Geralt’s chest knocking him to the ground._

_Lambert hopped to his feet, anger swelling as he paced. “You arrogant prick!” Accusations flew first from Lambert’s pointed finger quickly followed in tense words. “I always knew you were weak! Look at you. Drunk off your ass, instead of doing what the Old Man always claimed you did best! Tracker…my ass!”_

_“There a point in this somewhere?” Geralt didn’t want to hear any more pleas for help, he’d lost Ciri and Vesemir. It was better to just wait for death to find him._

_“Yea, there’s a point all right. Ciri wouldn’t have given up if it were you. She would have stopped time to find you if she could. But you? You gave up on her the very second she didn’t return.”_

_Pushing to his feet, Geralt met Lambert’s anger head on. “You don’t know shit.”_

_“Prove it! You’re too damn weak to fight back-Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf. Ha! Nothing but a useless drunk. If only the Old Man could see you-”_

_Lambert had found the right trigger; Geralt blindly charged toward Lambert, clipping his shoulder before colliding with a shelving rack._

_“Asshole.” Lambert said, leaving Geralt in a heap of broken wood and scattered cans. “Wake the fuck up and find me or Eskel when you’re ready to leave this shitfest. Maybe you might even remember how to be a fucking witcher.”_

Geralt leaned back in his chair. Something changed in Lambert after Vesemir died, although what exactly Geralt never figured out. That was the last time he’d seen him. Had he not partnered with Eskel, Lambert’s greater loyalties might be questioned. _What about now_ , he thought, _hopefully Letho has the answers._

A hushed discussion caught Geralt’s ear.  Sticking his head out into the main space, he urged Letho and Iorveth to talk inside. “We don’t know if there are more waiting in here.”

Letho  entered shaking his head. “Now he worries.” Shifting his large frame to face Geralt, Letho’s disbelief showed. “I don’t think you can pull this off, Wolf.”

"Why’s that?” Geralt’s question carried only the slightest hint of wonder.

He tossed a package onto the table. “I got paid in advance. Supposed to take you out.” Iorveth pulled a dagger, only to be blocked by Letho’s sword.  “Relax,” he said slowly returning to his sword to his back. “I said, supposed to take him out. Those men were likely hanging around to make sure I did the work. Besides, if I’d meant to do it, Geralt would have been dead already.” Stretching, Letho settled into a chair.

“Thanks, I guess.” Geralt figured there was more to Letho’s revelation. “Planning on sharing the rest or are we going to play twenty questions?”

A flip of his head toward the door, set Iorveth to one final scan of the bar before closing the door. “Fine. Yea, I know who hired me, saw his face, too. The short answer is: you’re not going to like it.”

***

_“Had a feeling it was you,” Letho stood, arms crossed. “The price just tripled.”_

_Sigismund Dijkstra's eyes narrowed, “Done.”_

_Without reacting, Letho dropped into the chair across from Dijkstra. “Should’ve asked for more.”_

_“Kill the fucking bastard tomorrow and I’ll pay almost any price.” Dijkstra reached for the cigar humidor on his desk, but Letho’s witcher reflexes grasped the box first._

_“Haven’t agreed to the contract, just yet.” The witcher relinquished his hold on the prized humidor._

_“Let me guess, more bollocks about so called witcher neutrality.” Dijkstra groaned. “Fine. What will it cost me?”_

_Letho waited, Dijkstra taking his time choosing a cigar. “Another thousand every minute you make me wait.”  The witcher watched as Dijkstra abandoned his usual ceremony and lit the cigar. “If you want me to take the Wolf out, I need answers. I still owe him, call it a business arrangement.”_

_“You two getting cozy at night or something?” Sarcasm dissipated leaving only scorn. “I don't fucking care if he saved your whole bloody family, I need the bastard dead. You’re the second of you lot who seems to think Geralt shits golden eggs.”_

_Unmoved, Letho shrugged. “Convince me.”_  
  
_“Fucking witchers. Always pretending to be neutral observers, and never quite admitting to the meddling bastards you are.  Skellige should have been mine, but no, he had to set the girl in charge. I could have dealt with the son, bought him out, but the girl? She fights back. Geralt did that.”_

_“So what, hardly reason to kill him.” Leaning closer, Letho issued his challenge. “You fucked with Ciri, and that I got a big problem with, so start talking.”_

_Slamming his fist on the desk, Dijkstra’s face reddened.  “All right! I hired the doppler and the witch to frame Yennefer.” Dijkstra flung the papers from his desk. “I’d wanted Yennefer in the hands of the Magistrate or back to Emhyr, away from Geralt. The damned sorceress! She had to wake him up. ” He tried to reassure Letho. “I didn’t know the witch knew Cirilla. That was never part of the plan.  I wouldn’t have allowed it. I swear! When Geralt told me about Cirilla,I sent men after the witch figuring the two of them had their own agenda.”_

_“Let me guess,” sarcasm coated the witcher’s words, “they didn’t make it back so you figured to let Geralt take care of your problem.”  Letho’s stare drilled through Dijkstra. “You’re still breathing only because Ciri made it back and you just added another five thousand to my fee.”_

_“Sod off, I’m not paying it!” Jaw set, Dijkstra’s outward defiance lacked conviction and Letho continued to push._

_“Not like you have much choice. Who else you going to ask? Eskel? Lambert?”_

_A loud raucous laugh, Letho knew to be fake shook Dijkstra’s body. “That prick? Made the same offer to him. Told me to go fuck myself.”_

_“Sounds like Lambert,” Letho said, preparing to leave. “See you around, Dijkstra.”_

_Weighing his options Dijkstra conceded to Letho’s demands. “Wait.” Crossing to one of his bookcases, a false front revealed a safe. Dijkstra tried once more to secure Letho’s loyalty.  “I swear, I meant no harm to Cirilla. Not then, not now. Bury Geralt of Rivia, I don’t care where .”_

_Letho accepted the proffered funds. “I’ll be in touch.”_

***

Everything he’d done to help in the past upset Dijkstra’s perfect plan. Geralt looked to Iorveth for insight. “What do you think?”

“Matters not,” the elf offered. “What will _you_ do?”  Iorveth leaned on the table. 

Geralt’s hand moved absently to the small leather pouch Shani had given him before leaving the Academy. It was one option that would take multiple people working together. “I thought I had a plan, but it’s too complicated. I need a fast and dirty way to get Dijkstra before he finds someone willing to accept his offer.”

His companions disagreed. Letho spoke first. “You have limited choices. Disappear or take him out.”

Iorveth pulled a chair and sat down. “Why not both? That bag you’ve touched a dozen times, and you weren’t carrying it when we parted. If the woman at the Academy gave that to you, I can surmise the contents to be very valuable in proper subterfuge.”

The elf’s observations weren’t off. He’d asked Shani for any means to fake death. She’d cautioned him the concoctions could prove ineffective for a witcher, but it had seemed a good idea at the onset.

Leaning back in his chair, Letho carried the thought. “Disappearing is easy enough, but it’s got to be believable. I’ve faked my death before, the more who can witness the better. You’ll need help.”

“I know,” Geralt said. Yen and Ciri out of the way, the Gwent tournament at Kaer Morhen set, he wondered if Dijkstra would show. “A few more pieces to go, but tell Dijkstra you’ll take the contract and you name the place. Kaer Morhen- the tournament. He’ll show if you promise to deliver.”

“You’ll need guarantees, Gwynbleidd.” Iorveth warned, “If you fail?”

Geralt nodded. “That’s where you and your friends come in.  A final fuck you to Dijkstra. The body of a missing monarch rests in a tomb in Novigrad. I’ll give you the name of the family. Help it to a more suitable resting place in The Bathhouse and then-”

A menacing grin spread across Iorveth’s face before he laughed. “Then I send that whoreson Roche over with a concerned citizen’s call about seeing the missing king in Dijkstra’s company. Well done.”

Geralt would have let the body rot where it lay, but Dijkstra didn’t deserve piece of mind. "I dumped the body with Dijkstra. He’s far too cautious to have moved it. It’ll be there.”

Eager to leave, Letho suggested they depart. “Then we’re agreed. I’ll head to Kaer Morhen after I accept Dijkstra’s contract.

Gathering his gear, Iorveth added his own summary, “I shall wait for the tournament then move our _friend_ to his new home. And you, Gwynbleidd, where will you go? “

Sighing, Geralt didn’t look forward to his next task. “Nothing too difficult. Just have to apologize for being such as ass for years and hope to get a little help.”

***  
Yennefer was out of the question, Philippa mad and psychopathic, Fringilla wouldn’t even accept a call from him, and Marguerite he didn’t know well enough to ask, leaving one option open to Geralt. Checking the streets as he exited, Roach’s engine roared. “Just back to the club, Roach.” A short ride insufficient to figure out the right words, Geralt cleared his mind.

He needed a sorceress capable of several different scenarios and being convincing as well. When he pulled up to the club, Geralt hesitated. Ciri could help him, but that would mean interacting with Yen, and Geralt didn’t want either of them around. The late hour reminded Geralt that Dandelion’s place closed earlier during the week. He knocked repeatedly until the latch disengaged, and the door opened.

Zoltan held the door handle firmly. “Bloody hell. What are you doing here? Get inside already.”

Sitting at a table, the person he sought looked up and smiled. Without an invitation, Geralt joined her. “Hey Triss.”

“Hey yourself. I’m guessing you need my help considering you sent Yen and Ciri away.” Her face fell. “You really hurt Yen, I’ve never seen her so. . .”

“Angry?” Geralt offered.

“You should be so lucky. Try devastated and pained; whatever you said, worked a little too well.”

He hadn’t fathomed deeper emotions from Yen, he thought she'd simply leave angry. “I’ll . . .not sure I’ll be able to make it up to her. But I need your help, and I won’t lie, it’s not going to be easy.’

Triss’ exaggerated sigh and shake of her head revealed she was not surprised. “Geralt, when is it ever easy? What do you need from me?”

There was no reason not to trust her; Triss had been part of their group for so many years through the wars just as Yennefer had; only Triss preferred to stay away from the political side and traveled with them just out of sight. Geralt would have to share all of his ideas, and see where she could offer the most support. “I need to die. Sort of.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road to Kaer Morhen, Geralt meets a traveler with a message. Once he arrives, faced with failure in his plans to fake his death, he realizes he has little time to prepare a viable alternative.

The idea of travelling by portal did not appeal to the witcher, leaving Geralt and Roach on the road to Kaer Morhen; Triss and Zoltan planned to meet Geralt when he arrived.

Stopping along the way the flickering sign on a dilapidated building caught his attention. The Pale Horse. At one time, the sign beckoned travelers to the drinks offered within.  The witcher couldn’t recall if he’d seen it before, but the landscape changed so often it didn’t surprise him. Dreams of success and a healthy business built many places like this in almost every city wherever the land could spare room, but most fell into disrepair and ended up abandoned and forgotten.

Such was the state of the lone building; only two others occupied the space within. The man behind the bar wiped the area in front of him with a dark rag, doing little other than spreading the dirt across the warped wooden counter. He spoke to the second man, an elderly gentleman. Geralt wondered if the man had a home, judging by the odd collection of his wardrobe. He’d likely raided the bins to gather the strange and mismatched items he wore. Recognizing the formal military attire of a Nilfgaardian general, the witcher unsure where the old man had discovered the uniform; some families during the first war of the realms had prized such clothing, but to survive nearly seventy years in such condition seemed improbable. It was the riding cloak that pulled his attention most. Its color, the darkest of red hues as it melted into black reminded him of Frost and Hunt – a cloak of the Aen Elle.

When the cloaked man spoke, his voice strong and firm, Geralt doubted the old man’s appearance to be true. “Do you like stories, Witcher?”

His medallion remained silent, void of even the slightest tremor; something in the old man’s strength as he stood and moved toward Geralt’s table raised concern. “Depends on whose telling them.”

Removing his hood, white hair rested long past the old man’s shoulders; his weathered face a sign of age, but his voice dark and deep revealed a man of far younger years.

 _What are you_ , Geralt thought, using his senses to look beyond the expected. Instead of life, Geralt saw nothing. A dark cloud obscured the creature in front of him.  _This can’t be good._

As if the man could hear Geralt’s thoughts, he smiled. “There is nothing to fear, we are just two travelers crossing the Realms in opposite directions. Tell me, Witcher, do you believe in fate?”

Fate had become the easiest explanation for any misstep or tragedy in life, used by all from the richest man to the poorest. “If I did, what then?”   

Leaning back in his chair, the old man shrugged. “I’m surprised,” he said, “a witcher changes fate- interferes even- so how do you believe in something you’ve proven false throughout your life?”

Geralt stared at the man across from him, trying to discern his game. “I don’t change someone’s fate, if that’s what you’re insinuating. Maybe I delay it.” Geralt shrugged, unwilling to admit to any wrongdoing. “People do dumb things. They mess around in places they shouldn’t. All I do-all any witcher will do, is intervene. Sometimes we fail. What’s the problem? A witcher can’t guarantee life.”

The man tapped the side of his nose. “I concede the point. You do not cheat the inevitable.” Leaning forward once more, the man rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “Did you know that Death had a godchild once- but even he could not escape fate. Do you know the tale?”

Every child had heard the dark tale at least once growing up; even Geralt had shared it with Ciri when she was younger. Riveted to his every word, she’d asked for the story again and again.  “Sort of,” he replied.

“You witchers are far too modest,” the man said. “If you will indulge me.” A quick nod and gesture to proceed set the stranger on to his tale. “How do your stories begin?” The stranger pondered his opening words before steel grey eyes stared through Geralt.

 _Once upon a time, there was a poor man. As any father knows, one worked hard to provide for a family, and loving each of his children equally. When twelve children are joined by the thirteenth, such a child required a proper godfather_.

_After several failed attempts to find a suitable godfather, the man met Death along a lonely highway. After a long discussion, Death accepted the man’s offer and served as the child’s godfather. The boy grew to be intelligent, well-liked and exceedingly clever._

_When the boy reached the age of fifteen, Death appeared to him. Leading the young man into the woods, Death revealed very special herbs to him._

_“Remember this herb, and you will become a great healer among men.” Death explained that should the young man visit someone who was gravely ill, if Death stood at the head of the person, he must administer the herb with all haste._

_The young man nodded in understanding._

_“But,” Death held up his hand, “if I stand at the feet of the infirmed, you will do nothing. That person belongs to me.”_

_With Death’s blessing, the boy became a healer of renown, as Death had promised. When a king of immense wealth and power fell ill, the healer was sent for and brought before the king. Attending to the king, the clever healer met the king’s daughter and fell in love._

_While examining the king, the healer saw Death waiting at the foot of the bed, and decided to trick Death. Shifting the king in his bed, the healer made it appear that Death stood at the head of the King and against Death’s warnings, the healer saved the king._

_Death approached the healer, furious with the trick played to aid the king; Death warned the healer he only lived for the sake of being his godchild. Another trick would result in the healer’s death._

_When the king’s daughter fell ill, the healer knew she would not survive without the herb. When Death appeared at the foot of her bed; the healer hatched his plan. Doing nothing, he waited until morning and healed the princess, but before her eyes opened, Death emerged and dragged the healer far underground._

_Deep in the caverns below, a series of caves held a marvel. Thousands upon thousands of candles burned to different lengths as far as the eye could see, and given the bright glow from every turn and tunnel, it might have been endless._

_Death explained that each life burns in his sanctuary, the new and the old, the ill and the dying. He revealed the truth - the smaller the candle, the shorter the life. Showing the healer his candle, the man noticed his life nearing its end._

_The man pleaded with his godfather to light a new candle for him; he asked to redeem his transgressions and honor his godfather’s wishes. Death, moved by the words of the man, reconsidered gathering a new candle to relight the flame for his godchild._

_At the moment Death leaned to light the new candle, he took his revenge, letting the first candle fall to the ground, taking with it the life of the healer._

Holding his breath for a moment Geralt realized who sat across from him. _Son of bitch, I’m talking to Death_ , Geralt wondered if all his plans were about to end even before he could begin. He didn’t wait for the end of the story to linger, usually done out of respect when Dandelion told his yarns. There was a point to this story, and it led Geralt to a conclusion far earlier than expected. “So, it’s my time then? I pissed you off enough over the years that now you want your revenge?”

Covering his head once more, the man laughed, taking his time before his laughter dissolved into a long exaggerated sigh. “Geralt. You really are more clever than most give you credit. The world is far more amusing with you mucking it up for the powers across the worlds. You leave me plenty to do. Consider this a warning. Your candle burns far slower than those around you, save for a few. Do not seek me through unnatural means. Fate is a colossal bitch and she will not take kindly to you fucking up her plans.”

“Fate?” The witcher didn’t understand.

Death stood, adjusting his cloak. “She’s old and cranky and frankly smells a bit off-and she seems to enjoy screaming at me for letting you witchers run around without much intervention.” Walking toward the door Death paused, and with a slight turn of his head back in Geralt’s direction he spoke his parting words. “I have an appointment to keep in the opposite direction, Geralt. Do me a favor and don’t do anything stupid.”

______

 _  
Don’t do anything stupid_ , he thought. Directing Roach to take the mountain road toward Kaer Morhen, Geralt considered his options. _I get it_ , his thought process continued, _I should just turn around and go after Dijkstra and forget all this._ The plan was complicated: a tournament, Iorveth and his crew relocating Radovid’s body and the worst of it, the plan to fake his death. The whole thing had the potential for serious blow back. Despite Geralt’s concern, he urged Roach to go faster. As the motorcycle accelerated, Geralt cleared his mind and let Roach assume control.

When the two arrived at Kaer Morhen, Geralt sought out Olgierd and Zoltan, impressed at the work Olgierd and his Immortals had completed.  Despite the still obvious decay of the structure, they’d managed to clear all the debris. As he walked the courtyard, a pile of smashed fruit littered the ground, catching Geralt’s attention. Off to the right of the mess, Olgierd and Zoltan argued. 

“As long as the witcher doesn’t roll, he’ll be fine.” Olgierd stared up, giving another wave. “Now don’t chuck it down, just hold it and let it go!”

The melon dropped from the portico hitting a pile of what looked to be large bags of grain stacked four by four hidden by underbrush. The fragile fruit landed on the bags intact, but rolled to the left and smashed open when it hit the ground.

Zoltan shook his head, as Geralt joined them. “Ah! Geralt! This is never going to work, tell me you have another plan.”

Geralt waved Zoltan’s concern away. “It’s the fall I need to survive, the roll. . .I can handle. Keep working on it. Maybe try something a little sturdier.” Leaving the two to their experimentation, Geralt searched for Triss, hoping she had better news.

Even the long walk up dilapidated walkways held memories. Kaer Morhen had seen their numbers swell, then slowly fall away over the years, leaving just the few. Many of those who had passed on Geralt recalled their faces, but the names had long since sank deep into nothingness. No spirits haunted these stones, only memories.

Dismissing his darkening thoughts, Geralt entered the main hall, shocked at the changes inside. Where empty bottles and rubble had littered the floor, tables and chairs rested waiting for guests. The large fireplaces bathed the room in a warm light; the sight of the renewed life within his home drew Geralt further inside.

“Geralt? Is that you?” Triss called from the rear of the room.

The magic field she’d erected covered a metal pot resting on a long table. He guessed whatever sat simmering inside unsafe for consumption. “I’d like a little of your blood.” She’d asked for blood as easily as ordering a drink.

“Do I want to know?” His stare fixed at the table.   

“What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?”  

Reaching for the knife in his boot, Geralt asked how much she required.

Triss stared at him, her exasperation evident as she huffed a loose strand of hair from her face. “A drop! What do you think I’m doing? It’s a test and nothing more.” Flipping through a book on the table, she asked him to put a drop on the small wooden dowel from the table.

Complying with her request, a quick poke and he handed the small dowel back to her. Another string of words holding no meaning for him set another field around the first. “You might want to step back,” she said, “just in case.” The hint of a smirk on her face did little for his mood.

“Triss, what are you doing?”

She hushed him, lifting her hands once more, intoning more unfamiliar words and dropping the dowel as the field disappeared and then appeared once more. He felt the tremor from the reaction contained within her shield. Triss exhaled, turning away from the table. “Damn. That didn’t work.”

With less than ten hours to figure out his death, Geralt’s patience thinned. Joining her, her flipped the book over. Tales of the Realms: Volume Three. “Fucking fairy tales? Triss, I need a solution not a fucking,” he turned back to the marked page, “poison apple?”

Crossing her arms, she pressed her lips together. “You asked me to help you.” Snatching the book from the table she shook it. “These stories have real beginnings, Geralt. I’m surprised you’ve forgotten that!” She turned away. “The poison apple. It induced a death like state, I’m trying to find that poison using everything we have.”

He needed Triss. She was trying, but without Yen, without her cleverness -Geralt had few choices. “Do what you can,” he said attempting to soften his tone. “Do me a favor, looks like my thought on falling off the portico is a bust too.”

Brows furrowed, she stared back at him. “What’s the favor?”

“Put the herbs Shani gave me into some useable form, as potent as you can, Triss. Best case, they work. Worst case, they work too well.”

Taking the steps slowly, Geralt needed a strategist, someone who could make this work. Someone who could put together the perfect plan using magic and manipulation to make the others believe what they witnessed was real. “I need Yen,” he said reaching the top floor. Pausing, he couldn’t believe the work the Immortals had done. Even his room looked as he remembered it from years past, complete with a few armor stands holding the few sets Geralt had retained before the second war.

After the first war, the need for armor and sword making diminished. There were enthusiasts here and there who could mend or reinforce witcher’s armor if needed, but the modern age rendered much of their crafts obsolete. Running his hand along the cobalt dyed leather, Geralt had commissioned the color solely because Yennefer thought he’d looked good in the color.

Opting instead for a change of clothes, Geralt returned to the kitchen in search of inspiration. A shrill whistle caught his attention from the hall. He guessed Eskel or Letho had arrived. A loud voice boomed through the space. “Hey, asshole! We’re here.”

 _Lambert_ , Geralt grumbled keeping his comments to himself, _definitely not ready for another round of fighting with him_.  Eskel waited, arms crossed. His sideways glances at Lambert went unnoticed as the louder of the two continued his rude commentary.

“Must be a special occasion! You changed your clothes.” Lambert laughed until Eskel shoved him.

“This is serious. Cut the crap,” Eskel said, staring at Lambert.

Lambert tossed his hands up in defeat. “Fine. So, we’re here. Now what?”

Geralt grabbed a few bottles and led the two deeper into the kitchen. Tossing a bottle to each, Eskel noted Geralt’s empty hand. “You’re not joining us,” Eskel stated, “not a good sign.”

Turning a chair backwards, Geralt straddled the seat, arms resting on the back. “Nope, and I need to make this fast, I’ve only got about,” he looked at his watch, “seven or eight hours to live.”  Geralt leaned closer and shared everything.

______

Ard Skellige

Kaer Trolde-an Craite family holdings

 

Laws both written and understood kept the peace on Ard Skellige, but it was through shrewd and calculated acumen that Cerys an Craite strengthened the reach of all the clans. Before Cerys assumed control of the shipyards, her family’s holdings, while substantial, lacked a long reach.

Cerys brought the Iles together; uniting the craftsman under her business plans guaranteed Skellige steel, lumber and stone helped carry the Realms into modernized construction. With the help of her brother Hjalmar, the Iles had never been more profitable.

As had been the way of the Realms for centuries, with success- trouble often followed. Disbelief carried her on a search for her brother; hoping her assumptions were wrong. The call she received from Novigrad lasted for nearly an hour and what she had heard disturbed her. Cerys hurried through the halls shouting for her brother. Her lyrical cadence and thick accent of the Iles grew heavier as her agitation increased. “Hjalmar! Where’s he gone off too now? Hjalmar!”

Unable to find him, Cerys turned her attention back to the stairwells and a new destination. Yennefer’s quarters. She’d need real firepower behind her this time-not just strong will and words. “The fat bastard goes too far!” She yelled into the halls, earning the attention of any and all. The deeper she descended, the louder her angry words grew, carrying Ciri out to discern the problem.

Ducking her head out into the hall Ciri read the anger in Cerys’ face. There could be no mistaking the bright redness of cheeks and ears, nearly matching the red-checkered scarf around Cerys’ neck-a tribute to her family’s honor.

Ciri exhaled before stepping out into the hall. “Cerys,” Ciri said with a sigh. “How can we help?” She offered a soft smile and outstretched hand. Ciri knew Yennefer to be in no mood for trouble.

At first, Cerys tried to reject the offered kindness, her fury still unabated she needed answers and hoped Yennefer to give them. Recognizing Ciri sought not to deter her, but help Cerys regain her calm and logical self, she explained. “Forgive me, Ciri. I’m hopeful you and Yennefer might help, yes. I received a disturbing call and even more worrisome visit. I fear that something dreadful has happened.”

The mere mention of trouble, Ciri’s eyes widened. “Of course, please come in.”

Inside Cerys saw the aftermath of some unknown event, broken shards of various items lay is gathered piles across the floor, books strewn about, pages bent where they landed. Yennefer packed large traveling trunks, her back to the door. “Whatever it is, I’m in no frame of mind just now, perhaps later.”

Unwilling to leave, Cerys exercised her rights as the host for Yennefer’s dealings. “Am I to be dismissed then? Some common servant?” The lilt to her voice deepened, revealing a renewed anger. “With all due respect, I offered a place for you to stay and instead we’ve had nothing but madness! Now, I’ve demanded nothing from you-not one thing.”

A deep sigh from Yennefer turned her toward the door.  “You’re right, of course. My behavior was highly inappropriate; please tell me, what can I do?”

Cerys ignored the lack of apology; she’d grown used to Yennefer’s ways. “I’m about to lose the shipping lanes, the contracts and if I understand the papers, the entire fleet of ships as well.”

The two other women in the room could not contain their surprise. Placing her hands on her hips, Yennefer tapped her foot. “This has Dijkstra’s stench all over it.”

A question edged its way from Ciri’s thoughts to her tongue, only to be held back. A pointed look to Yennefer, Ciri tried to be understanding. Yennefer’s heart had broken, but there was one person who could help them. “We need to call him.”

“No,” even from the softness of her voice, the slightest hint of an edge made it clear, Yennefer would not entertain the thought.

Cerys’ eyes shifted from Yennefer to Ciri, seeing the younger woman shrug, she waited to see what would happen.

Ciri couldn’t let it go, she refused. She couldn’t believe that Geralt could simply push them both away as easily as he did. “All right, then Dandelion.” Picking up the phone handset, Ciri dialed the number to the Club in Oxenfurt. When her target answered, she spoke without stopping.  

“Now listen carefully, Dandelion. You will not lie, nor will you omit a single thing. You will answer my question. Where is Geralt?”

She heard the exasperation in his voice as two words traveled to her ear. “Kaer Morhen.”

“What?” She couldn’t believe it. “May I speak with Triss, then?” The silence knitted her brows and her eyes narrowed. “Dandelion, what is it?”

 He grumbled. “You know this isn’t fair! Look, all I know is something happened. Triss and Zoltan left for Kaer Morhen and then Geralt and Roach took to the road. Oxenfurt is a mess, the Immortals are gone, and no one has seen them!” He took a breath. “The news out of Novigrad isn’t much better.” He sighed. “My phone rings non-stop! Roche, the Magistrates, and Dijkstra’s man are relentless. If you find Geralt, tell him to stay lost!” 

Ciri assured Dandelion she would figure everything out, and reminded him to stay safe before hanging up the handset. “He lied,” she said the hint of a smile on her face. “Geralt lied.” Ciri explained nothing, dialing another number ignoring Yennefer and Cerys’ endless questioning. She waited for anyone to answer her call.

___   
  
Kaer Morhen  
  
All three witchers stared at one another, Lambert spoke first. “Shit. You’re not making this up? I knew Dijkstra was full of shit when he asked me to take you out. What about Letho? Can you trust him?”

Geralt nodded. “He’s the last nail. If everything else fails, Letho will do what he does best.”

Pounding on the table, Eskel disagreed. “No. We get Dijkstra, no games Wolf.”

The annoying ring of phones throughout Kaer Morhen attempted to pull them from the discussion. Talking over the insistent ring, Geralt had dismissed the idea of a direct approach refusing to bring violence to the streets of Novigrad. Dijkstra’s reach within the city would prove too great, putting many at risk.

As the conversation continued, Geralt cursed silently for allowing the addition of the phone lines within Kaer Morhen. After the seventh ring, Geralt yelled for Triss to pick up the phone.

“A little busy here, Geralt!” Triss voice sang out in reply. “It’s your home!”

Eskel sat closest to the phone on the wall, answering only to stop it from ringing. He said nothing, listening to the caller before alerting Triss the caller needed to speak with her.

“All that just to ask for Triss?” Geralt asked, still preoccupied with his predicament.

“I’m just the messenger, Wolf.” He shrugged before continuing. “All right, let’s go through this again, what are our options?”  

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death's story is an adaptation of Godfather Death, one of the many fairy tales collected by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gwent tournament provides the perfect cover for a witcher's death. Geralt's plans have crumbled: a dramatic drop fell short, a poisoned apple lost its bite, leaving only the skills of one Letho of Gulet to aim just right or Geralt's fairy tale ending will simply come to a messy end.

  
  
Novigrad

_“It’s done.”_

The voice on the phone had said nothing else, Dijkstra surprised at the caller’s identity. “Didn’t think she had it in her.” A smugness settled through him; taking him one step closer to controlling the Iles. The preparations had cost him far too much money, but the goal worth every damn cent.

Pressing the intercom, Dijkstra decided to watch the event first hand.

“Yes, sir?” The disembodied voice sounded tinny through the speaker.

“Changed my mind, I’m heading out to Kaer Morhen,” He said pulling out a travel humidor and stocking it with enough cigars for the round trip. “Have my car brought around.”

“Alone, Sir?”

Djikstra grumbled. “What the fuck do you think? Of course alone.”  He continued muttering about the incompetence of those around him;  still surprised that the little red headed physician had come through.

_______

Kaer Morhen

No one wakes knowing it’s their last day to live, even Geralt’s day started out as many of his did, knee deep in a bunch of errands. He hadn’t expected to meet Death on the road to Kaer Morhen, nor had he anticipated Triss to search through children’s tales for a solution to his problem, but with hours before his planned event, the unfamiliar air of worry clouded around him.

Stepping out onto the balcony, Geralt took a long look at the surrounding area. A raised hand shielded his eyes from the early morning sun. “What I wouldn’t give for a shit day,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. Still unsure how to carry off the evening’s planned event, Geralt raised his arms and yelled. “A little help wouldn’t be too much to ask, would it?”

A soft laugh behind him caught his attention. He knew her even by the faintest of sounds. Ciri. A light cough followed, Geralt closing his eyes. _Damn_ , he thought before opening them once more and glaring out into the expanse. _That’s not what I meant by help._

Ciri joined him a bright smile reaching her eyes. “I’m guessing my arrival is not what you’d had in mind.”

Pressing his lips together Geralt hummed in response.

“You’re in over your head,” Ciri said, wandering toward the railing before turning to face him. “As usual.”

Geralt sighed through his words. “Ciri, you can’t stay.”

  
“Ha! This time you can’t tell me what to do; I’m on a contract, and you know what that means.”

Turning from her, Geralt regretted his words even before he began. “You’re not a witcher.” Ciri had as much right as any to take contracts and act on them, but he didn’t want her around-not if he failed.

  
His slight ignited her stubbornness. She teleported around Geralt, accusations carried in gestures before Ciri’s rebuttal spilled out. “I’m as good as any witcher with a blade, _and_ a better shot than you _and_ you know it! Plus,” she paused looking for more to add to her argument, “you lied to me!”

  
“Ciri.”

  
Shrugging free of her jacket Ciri tossed it aside. “No, you don’t get to treat me like I’m the unreasonable one. Only a fool sacrifices himself while his friends sit idle.” Ciri’s conviction turned wistful. “Uncle Vesemir said that.” Her sudden remembrance quieted her earlier bravado. “I wish. . .I wish I would have listened to him more often.”

  
There was a certain truth to Ciri’s words, even for Geralt. Vesemir had said a lot of things over the years, most of which Geralt and the others ignored. “Vesemir wasn’t your uncle.”

  


“Why must you always find a way to say the wrong thing and exactly the right time?” She faced him. “I’m not going to leave, this time it’s not going to work. I’m staying, and when I figure out a way to solve the problem I shall-even if I have to do so without you.”

 

Geralt moved closer. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

 

“Yes, well you should work on that,” she said, taking a deep breath. “It really is lovely here; with a little work you could make Kaer Morhen more like home.”

 

He had an idea where she was going; Ciri making small talk never suited her. The point of her arrival and her conversation either had something to do with the gwent tournament or with Yennefer. “Skip the lead in and tell me what’s on your mind. This whole place is going to dive deep into a shit-storm this afternoon.”

 

Shouts from below caught his attention; Eskel’s voice carried up the stairs. “Geralt! Hey! Geralt!”

 

Ciri followed him halfway down the stairs, stopping as Eskel met them.  He huffed once and launched into his news. “Triss is upset. She said something about a poison apple, opened a portal and left.”

 

“Damn.” Geralt had hoped Triss’ fairy tales held the answer. “Now what?”

An unmistakable glance passed between Ciri and Eskel. “We get Dijkstra. Our way,” Eskel said. “Lambert’s ready to go, and Ciri offered to help.”

Geralt’s hand cut through the air. “No.” Any public move against Dijkstra would bring more challenges.

The other two tried to interject. “But-“

Keeping his voice even, Geralt wanted to be firm without  anger. “I said no. We need Dijkstra here.” He tried to explain. “I’ve got one final move in place to get Dijkstra, and it needs to play out.” Geralt didn’t want to share what Iorveth and his men would do once Dijkstra left Novigrad; Radovid’s decaying corpse discovered at The Bathhouse would be front page news soon enough. Shifting on the step, Geralt looked over his shoulder; none of the stairwells had rails. “Do me a favor, let’s go up or down. I don’t need to die from falling off these steps, although if I don’t find another way-“

Ciri sidestepped Eskel and hurried down the stairs. “That’s what I was trying to tell you! I may have a solution! I need to make one quick phone call.”

_____

The problem with most plans; they never quite follow along as hoped. The abrupt disappearance of Triss had been the first sign of real trouble if Geralt discounted the failures of Zoltan and Olgierd and the faked fall from the portico. He’d left Letho days earlier still unsure if his fellow witcher would follow through if needed. 

_“Let me get this straight,” Letho said packing his gear Geralt’s eyes lingering on the sniper rifle. “If you’re still standing by the end of the evening you want me to kill you.”_

_Geralt nodded. “Problem?”_

_A deep laugh preceded Letho’s response. “Yeah, I’ve got a problem. Three come to mind: Ciri, Triss, and Yennefer. None of them will believe that you told me to do it.”_

_Geralt had learned one thing about playing gwent; sometimes you have to sacrifice a good card to get your opponent to do the same. Letho was a great card player. He’d never give up anything to win. Talking with him proved no different. He’d carried around a hunch that Letho and Iorveth had never severed their arrangement and it had been at Iorveth’s insistence that Letho seemed to show up whenever needed. “That night at the club, you fired the warning shots.”_

_“Let’s just say, when I’m asked to do something, I don’t miss. If I do? It’s for a reason.” Grabbing the handle of the bag, Letho hoisted it across his back, a sign he planned to leave._

_“Do me this favor and we’re square. Debt repaid.” Geralt didn’t want to rehash their past. He’d helped Letho when he’d been a hunted man and swore to repay Geralt._

_“Killing you is not repayment. Twenty years ago, maybe, but you were a prick then. Now? I’ll have to think about it.”_

A hand on Geralt’s shoulder pulled him from his reverie. It took less than a quick glance at Eskel and Lambert to realize the pair brought him more bad news. Neither one shy, the hesitation and uncharacteristic almost sympathetic look from Lambert concerned him more than anything. “Lose a puppy or something, Lambert?”

Scoffing, Lambert opened his mouth to retort, but Eskel’s elbow stopped him. “What the fuck?”

“Shut up, all right. Let me handle this.” Eskel turned back to Geralt.

Sizing up the two, Geralt didn’t want the bad news and sought to pick on Lambert. “Let me guess. You’ve proposed and Lambert is pissed because he has to wear the dress.” 

The sneer on Lambert’s face deepened. “Fuck you, Wolf.” Lambert tried to turn away, but Eskel managed to grab his jacket. “You’re running out of friends fast, Geralt. Probably shouldn’t be an ass right now.”

A guiding hand turned Geralt away from the escalating argument. “It’s Shani. She surrendered claiming she’d conspired to kill you. Roche has her in Novigrad. It seems someone got to her.”

“Damn,” he said. “That’s why Triss couldn’t get the potion to work; Shani must have substituted one herb for another.”

From behind them, Lambert joined the conversation. “Not to piss all over your moment of clarity there Geralt, but Triss is not stupid. She would have seen the substitution, unless Triss-”

Geralt cut him off. “Don’t.”

Both tried to convince Geralt of the possibility that Triss may have been a part of Shani’s plan. Geralt knew better. “Triss wasn’t with Shani when she gave me the bag of herbs. Yennefer was.”

Lambert threw up his arms. “Well if that isn’t your answer staring you in the face, Wolf, I don’t know _shit_.”

“You _don’t_ know shit,” Geralt countered. “Yennefer had nothing to do with this.” He left the two standing in the kitchen. Rolling his shoulders Geralt headed for the courtyard to find Zoltan, the smallest hint of a smile on his face. _Shani’s in_ , he thought as his purposeful stride carried him outside. _This might actually work._

_____

 

Novigrad-Roche’s headquarters

Two hours in to his interrogation, Vernon Roche realized Shani had done nothing. “Listen to me, girl.” Roche rubbed his face with both hands. “Stuffing a bag with a bunch of herbs is not attempted murder it’s not even conspiracy-it’s gardening, regardless of the uses. Tell me who forced you to do this.”

Shani couldn’t look at him. Keeping her eyes to the floor, she hoped Roche bought her story, Shani had disagreed with the idea. There would be no possibility of lying to Roche. He knew her prior affiliations with Redania, but Roche was aware of Shani’s friendship with Geralt and that is what Geralt counted on-Roche wouldn’t turn her away. Dijkstra had cast a wide net throughout the Realms in his bid to grab control of Skellige. Shani was one of many he’d approached. She’d agreed without talking to Geralt at first, hoping she could discover enough information to help, but found the witcher had wanted her to continue the ruse.

Roche sighed and tried to soften his tone. “Shani, you’ve done nothing wrong, but you’ve got to help me so I can help Geralt.”

She shook her head and buried her face in her hands feigning tears.

“This is getting us nowhere,” he grumbled. “Look, you can stay here for now. Ves can set you up in a room upstairs, but stay away from the cells in the basement, are we clear?” Roche couldn’t handle crying. A sudden shout from the front carried Ves through to Roche’s office.

“We’ve got him!” Ves shouted her excitement clear as her fist punched through the air. “That fat pig son of whore! I told you he did it!”

Shani continued her ruse, listening to their conversation.

“Ves, a little discretion.”

Shani strained to hear the conversation until Roche yelled, “Dijkstra did what?!”

Shani looked up from her hands and hoped neither would notice the lack of tears. She watched Roche grab hold of Ves’ shoulders. “ _Tell me_ you have the body, Ves. _Tell me_ this is confirmed.”

“We’re on our way now. That pig left hours ago, some card tournament.” She leaned closer to Roche. “We’ll need everyone to hit The Bathhouse from all sides.”

Roche stared back at Shani before issuing his orders. “Leave two men; one at the front door and one at the alley. No one in,” he looked back once more, “no one out. Everyone else, move now.”  

Shani straightened as Roche approached her chair. “Feeling better?” He didn’t wait for her response. “If the information I’ve received is good, you will be free to go, but perhaps a bit wiser about the company you keep in the future.”

Shani agreed, and hoped Roche might allow her a little latitude. “May I contact the Academy and my family?”

Eager to set out, Roche agreed leaving Shani with the understanding she would need to remain inside until he returned. She waited patiently, despite the urgency of her news; she hoped her partner had found a way in as promised. “Why did I agree to this?” She continued her lament oblivious to the figure observing from the hall.

Stepping into the office, the sound of a quiet, refined voice startled her. “Because much like me, you seem unable to decline when Geralt asks for help.” Regis stepped from an empty office.

“Regis.” She sighed through her words. “I’m a terrible actress; I’m surprised Roche didn’t toss me into a cell.”

A half smile crossed the higher vampire’s face. “The feigned tears were a lovely touch. Very moving, my dear.”

Laughing as she found the basement door, Shani allowed Regis to descend first. “I couldn’t think of anything else. Roche was going to let me go and I had to find a way to stay right here. It seemed a good idea.”

Regis chuckled. “My dear Shani, never underestimate the immense power of a tearful female. It matters little how real it seems, what is essential is its adverse effect on a man’s ability to stay objective. It has been so for many a century.”

Descending into the cellblock area, Shani pressed Regis. “You don’t really believe that do you?” She questioned the validity of his statement. “It worked with Roche, hardly a proven theory.”

She heard him sigh. “While we are on the subject of theories, I’m afraid this little detour yielded nothing.”

Hurrying down the last few steps, Shani realized they’d arrived too late. Hanging from the exposed beams, the Doppler’s legs gave no indication the creature still lived. “Is he-”

Regis's short hum cut off Shani’s question. “Dead? Quite so, I’m afraid. A few hours at least, I doubt Vernon Roche even knew what was happening.”

Shani stepped closer to the cell. “I thought he looked like Geralt? Wasn’t that the whole point of this? Bringing the man to Kaer Morhen as a double?” She looked over his features, the man who had fooled her, locked her away in a closet looked more creature than human. His elongated arms, disproportionate to the rest of his body struck Shani as odd. “Those limbs, is that the true form of a Doppler?”

“Yes, although it is rare to see.” Regis cut the body from the rope and removed the rest from the beam. “It would be best to remove any trace of him. We can hope the absence will be blamed on Dijkstra’s men; who no doubt aided our friend with an early demise, thinking him to be Geralt.”

Her disagreement plain in the quick shaking of her head, Shani tried to reason with Regis. “You’re assuming that Roche and his men are rather dense, aren’t you.”

Regis simply smiled, eliciting a light laugh from her.

“All right, fine. So let’s assume that Dijkstra’s men broke in here, killed him and then made off with the body?”

He raised his hands. “Simpler, my dear, far simpler, there is little doubt that Vernon Roche is completely unaware of this poor creature’s demise. A missing prisoner means what?”

She closed her eyes as understanding filled her thoughts. “Jailbreak, she concluded, another thought crossing her mind, “but why not just break him out, why did they kill him?”

“It is my understanding that  Dijkstra has a contract on Geralt’s life, whomever perpetrated this crime, thought to collect on Geralt’s death.” He sighed. “The poor thing must have tried to prove his identity and failed.”

The droop of her shoulders expressed disappointment. “Then we failed. What happens next?”

Regis hoisted the body over his shoulder. “I require your acting talent once more to exit through the alleyway. I shall leave our friend in a more proper entombment and then hurry to Kaer Morhen. He gestured toward the stairs with smooth wave. “Please, I insist.”

When they reached the office proper, Regis spoke once more, “Might I suggest standing on the desk and screaming? A rodent or an arachnid should be sufficient.”

“I’m used to both, Regis. Hardly a terrifying experience.”

He shifted the body on his shoulder. “I am well aware of your strengths my dear, but our two guards do not know that now, do they?”

The sigh of exasperation as she climbed onto the desk elicited a light chuckle from Regis. “I look like an idiot.”

“Not at all. You look like a beautiful young woman about to scream her lovely head off at the sight of a horrid, tiny creature waiting to devour her. You are merely playing a role to allow me to depart.”

She cocked her hip and wagged a finger in Regis’ direction. “You’re having way too much fun with this.”

“Perhaps,” Regis said, “if you would be so kind?”

Shani took a deep breath and screamed.

_______

Kaer Morhen exhaled for the first time in years; a second chance at life, her walls filled with laughter and shouts as the tournament played out. Fires burned and warmed the large hall as the players moved from match to match.

The Immortals unwilling to simply stay invisible, walked through the open space, each dressed to Olgierd’s specifications. His fascination with Olfieri style clothing and weapons had each of his men dressed in bright colored fancy robes and carrying large sabres with curved blades; a spectacle of silk and swords.

Geralt leaned against a support post shaking his head at the sight, but he noticed the wide eyed awareness of the guests as his security force passed each table. Even in their garishness, the Immortals proved useful.

His medallion hummed and the familiar feel of a portal far behind him grabbed Geralt’s attention. Confident in Olgierd’s keen eyes, if Dijkstra showed, they’d be ready. Geralt hoped Triss had returned with a solution as the news from Shani hadn’t helped his mood. The Doppler had been a passing thought, using him to draw out Dijkstra and his men, but based on what Regis shared, he’d done so a little too well. Geralt’s plan to fool Dijkstra had all but collapsed. Leaving me with only one option, his thoughts traveled the one path he sought for so long, and now wished to avoid.

Prepared to give up on life after Vesemir’s death and Ciri’s disappearance, Geralt placed little value on anything other than a bottle and the fact everyone dies. Even witchers. No lessons learned and no life altering epiphany had changed him. Living or dying wasn’t the point anymore; midnight rides with Roach, wagers and challenges with Ciri-still so determined to prove herself; these things mattered. And Yen. He’d fucked up far too many times, and she usually forgave him. He’d never readily admit it to anyone, but the thought of returning to Toussaint with Yennefer often occupied his rest.

Geralt followed the pull of magic into the kitchen, Triss staring at a single red apple. “Is that it?” He asked.

“I had to ask Keira for help, but Geralt you need to understand.” She looked up into his eyes. “We tried.”

“Thanks,” he said reaching out for the tainted fruit. Triss slapped his hand away. “What now?”

“You may not wake up,” she said, her downcast eyes and pleading voice tried to reason with him. “This isn’t a children’s tale, no one is going to save you, Geralt. Keira cautioned you could be stuck halfway between death and life with no chance of recovery.”

Geralt considered her warning, but had little choice. “My choices are the apple or getting shot by Letho. I’ll take the risk.”

“It’s your funeral.” She shot back.

He winked. “That’s the plan. Now all we need is the guest of honor and we can get this over with.”    


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Endgame. Checkmate. In a single moment the fate of Geralt of Rivia changes forever-or does it? To win, sometimes you lose and the cost of betrayal is often far more than anticipated.

_“It’s your funeral.” She shot back._

_He winked. “That’s the plan. Now all we need is the guest of honor and we can get this over with.”_

Despite her continued objections, Geralt snatched the poisoned apple and carried it back out into the hall. The pool of players had thinned leaving only the strongest of players. Two tables remained active, Geralt unable to see the players. Near the entryway, Regis and Ciri seemed engaged in conversion; Regis breaking his eye contact with Ciri long enough to acknowledge Geralt’s scrutiny.

Still unable to see the players, Geralt attempted to circle the table his way blocked by Olgierd. “So, it begins,” Olgierd muttered before continuing his slow pace through the guests. Geralt took Olgierd’s words to mean Sigismund Dijkstra had arrived. Shifting his way through the guests, a moment’s surprise caught him to see Dijkstra facing off with Letho; the matches tied at one each. Geralt looked to the table for the stakes. No coin, no bill and no card rested on the wooden table top.

“Relax Wolf,” Letho said, not bothering to look up, “it’s a private arrangement.”

Glancing at the table, Geralt noticed Letho’s chosen deck had changed. “A Scoia’tel deck, Letho? I always took you for a Nilfgaardian man.” 

Letho chuckled. “You know how it goes; over time, you get used to a certain way, certain people. Then something changes. You have to change, too-trust too long in one thing without question, you lose.”

 _There’s a message in there somewhere_ , Geralt thought, _or maybe not. Never can tell with Letho._

“Shut it!” Dijkstra complained about the constant chatter from his gwent opponent.

Letho kept his eyes on his cards. “You see Wolf, the cards don’t lie. You know what you get when you put them down.” He dropped a high level ranged card. “You’ve got to trust in your plan of attack, otherwise, the other guy wins.”

 _Fuck me_ , Geralt tried to keep a straight face, _what the hell is he trying to tell me?_

Slamming his open palm on the table Dijkstra threatened Letho. “If you don’t shut your mouth-“

Superior reflexes shot Letho’s hand to grab Dijkstra’s wrist. “You’ll what?” Dijkstra’s veiled attempts to pull free left Letho unfazed and unmoved.

Geralt intervened. “Let him go,” he said, “and finish the game.”

 Without acknowledging Geralt’s request, Letho broke contact but his hard gaze held Dijkstra still. “Thought so.”

A newfound concern prompted Geralt to call Olgierd closer, if Dijkstra had brought men, the night could turn ugly. Stepping away from the table, Geralt waited. After a few hushed words, Olgierd sent his men out in various directions. Dijkstra stared at the two men and laughed.

“Come now, did you think I’d bring others? I know better.” He said, not bothering to mask his mocking tone. “Kaer Morhen? Witchers? You’re probably hiding a sorceress or two in this place.”

Geralt left Olgierd to respond, tired of Dijkstra’s attitude even after the short time, he fired back. “Hiding a sorceress, that’s your thing,” he said, alluding to Philippa Eilhart whom he no doubt hidden after her little evening of regicide.

Dijkstra looked down at the table. “Of course, you’d try to throw that in my face in front of witnesses.” He narrowed his eyes so tight, they appeared almost closed. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Geralt. I’m here for the gwent, and nothing more.”

“Yeah right, the gwent.” Leaving the two to their game, Geralt ventured closer to Ciri and Regis; he caught the end of their conversation, Regis thanking Ciri for her quick thinking.

“. . .would that I could remain, but I fear now we know the culprit there is little left for me here. Perhaps our paths with cross again soon.” Regis turned, adjusting his shoulder bag. “Ah, Geralt still breathing. Excellent. You might try extending that beyond the evening.” Regis paused. “Before you think to roll your eyes at my sentiment, I should tell you-“ Ciri interrupted him, a light pat on his arm. “Ah. I see, and so there is naught to do but bid you both good night.” Choosing to walk out of the main hall, Regis would no doubt wait until out of sight to transform and depart.

Ciri coughed and looked away. “How goes the game?”

A raised brow and crossed arms offered a large hint Geralt wasn’t buying her act. “Nice try. What are you plotting?”

She stepped closed and leaned her head against his arm. “Trying to keep you around, that’s all.” She gestured toward the game. “Letho is playing for your contract, but Dijkstra might win.” She sighed. “Hjalmar is waiting outside, if all else fails, he’ll attack you on some premise or other and try to knock you you-so try, all right?”

“Dijkstra won’t buy that.” He searched for another reason to give her, something to help Ciri understand, but found nothing but her eyes staring up at him, a silent plea for more time. “Come here, you.” He smiled before giving her a hug. The force she used said so much more than he could ever tell her. “Ciri. Letho will lose and then he’ll help me end this.” She protested, but Geralt held her promising everything would be all right. “When it’s done, get to Roche he’s likely losing his mind having to sit still. Tell him to wait for my call.”

She struggled free. “I don’t understand.”

He sighed, watching Letho stand and gather his cards before heading their way. “Let’s put it this way. If I don’t call, you’ll know I really messed up.”

Letho didn’t break his stride, speaking as he exited the hall. “It’s time. Get him to follow you. I’ll make it quick.”  Letho’s purposeful strides carried him out of view.

Leaning against the entry, something on the air confused Geralt. A scent. Sweet. Floral. Familiar. _Yen’s in Skellige_ , _Ciri told me that earlier,_ he thought _, wishful thinking, maybe._ He inhaled once more and found nothing save the scent of burning oil and wood from the fire pits.

Turning to find Dijsktra, Ciri blocked his way. “Are you sure?”

He lifted her chin with his hand, the same way he’d done since she was young. “Yeah. I’m sure. Everything will be all right.” _I hope_ , he finished.

The final match completed, those gathered milled around looking for an opportunity to leave. Geralt needed witnesses.

Dijkstra’s boisterous laugh and smugness pissed Geralt off enough to carry him toward his former friend. A solid jab to Dijkstra’s face sent blood squirting from his nose.

“Bastard! What the fuck?” Another jab and an upper cut to his jaw sent the huge man to the floor.

“That’s for sending the witch and the Doppler, for Ciri and for Yennefer you son of a bitch.” Despite the anger in Geralt’s words, his voice remained as it always had, strong and carrying a hint of menace. “I know about the contract, Dijkstra.”

Sigismund Dijkstra said nothing. He glared through pained eyes and rested with clenched fists revealing his anger.

“Well?” Geralt stood, arms outstretched. “Go ahead.” He unbuckled his weapon harness and laid it on a table.

Eskel questioned Geralt’s behavior. “What are you doing?”

Working to unfasten his armor, Geralt issued a few requests. “Get these people outside, we’re about to see who’s balls are bigger.” He pointed to Olgierd. “Help him,” he gestured to Dijkstra, “outside.” Geralt grabbed Triss’ apple, and followed the group out of the hall, his chest bare.

Knowing the unpredictability of bullet trajectories, no matter how good a shot Letho claimed to be, Geralt hoped the lack of armor would guarantee a convincing, clean shot.   _Now to see if he’ll take the bait._

“Running away?” Holding his arms out, Geralt turned around showing everyone he was unarmed.

“You really are a smug bastard, Geralt. Too bad you won’t be around to get in my way.” Dijkstra saluted and walked down the small set of stairs to the courtyard. Geralt followed, taking a bite of the apple.

“Don’t be too sure, Dijkstra. This isn’t over,” Geralt shouted after him.

Geralt felt the searing sting before the crack echoed around him.  Ciri screamed and ran inside, unwilling to watch. “Damn,” he said, looking down at his chest, the flow of blood leaving no doubt Letho had delivered as promised. “Finally, someone listened to me.” Geralt felt his balance waiver, and his eyesight blurred. _The apple_ , he thought, just before he lost control and his body tumbled down the stairs landing hard on the cold ground.   

____

 

He floated. At least Geralt thought his body floated lighter than air until he rested on a hard surface. As soon as one feeling ended, another began. Warm lips touched his, lingered; a strong scent followed, filling his mind waking to awareness. Lilacs. Gooseberries. “Yennefer,” eyes still adjusting to the harsh lights above him, Geralt smiled.

“You, Geralt, are perhaps the biggest fool ever to grace the Realms.” Yennefer’s stern words had little effect on Geralt’s serenity.

He hummed. “I love it when you talk that way, Yen.”

“Don’t start. I’m still quite cross and liable to do anything.” She rested her hand on his chest before leaning over to look into his face and eyes. Restricted by her leather coat, Yennefer shrugged free and tossed it aside. Returning to her earlier scrutiny, she lifted his eyelids, using magic to illuminate and observe his physical reactions. 

“Anything, huh?” He said, his voice growing huskier. “Mind if I make a few requests?” He tried to reach for her, but Yennefer backed up and shoved his hands away.

“Geralt.” Her warning tone belied the hint of a smile she tried to mask turning from him.

“You make it too easy, Yen.”

She coughed, and faced him once more, her stern expression mirrored in her words. “And _you_ should know better. Look at this mess. You’ve been shot, and lucky for you Letho must have decided it was better to get as close as possible without hitting anything major,” she said, touching a tender spot on his head. Yennefer sent a warm wave of magic coursing through him before continuing her tirade.  “I believe you may have suffered a concussion from that fall. I mean really, you’re a witcher and a four foot fall knocks you out?” She shrugged as if the notion inconceivable to her. “How embarrassing.”

“Gee, thanks. Is there more?”

“Of course there’s more! Asking Triss to make a poison to mask life? She is a gifted sorceress but those arts are best left to those of us who have the skills to do so. Had you not been such a monumental ass, perhaps I would have solved this whole predicament without involving everyone in such a convoluted scheme. Did you even think for one moment you should have asked me?”

Geralt tried to sit up. “Well, I didn’t think-” Before he could finish his thought, Yennefer pushed him back down.

“No, you didn’t think, and furthermore you could have done irreparable damage. Fairy tale magic is based in truth, but without the proper training it could have proved deadly,” Yennefer warned, handing him a clean shirt. “Again, lucky that while Triss is exceptional in some respects, her lack of experience in such potions proved advantageous.”

 _Leave it to Yennefer to slip an insult into a compliment._ “Anything else?” Geralt stood without interference.

She huffed. “Give me a few moments; I’m sure I can find something.”

“Yen.”

“What!?” She looked over at him the sly smile growing on his face. “No, do not think you can simply say my name and all is forgiven.”

“Actually, I was going to ask if I can go. Dijkstra thinks I’m dead. Roche will burst if we don’t finish this now.”

A strangled groan and words held back in anger threatened to boil over as Geralt finished dressing. Risking her fury, he stepped behind her, bending to place a gentle kiss on her neck. “Thank you.” His first tender kiss, she waved him away, but Geralt continued. “I’ll make it up to you. Two weeks in Toussaint, you and me.” His offer met with silence, a light trail of his lips from her neck to her ear elicited a soft sigh. “I’ll see you soon.”

He released her and moved to grab his clothes. “Geralt, wait.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

 

______

 

“This office is too small,” Roche grumbled as he paced, restless for news.

Ciri’s patience had all but worn away, no small feat for anyone to enact upon her, but Roche’s constant griping had set her on edge. Geralt couldn’t travel by normal means; too many had seen him killed. The distance had been nothing for Ciri, a quick portal had been sufficient, but Geralt insisted on taking Yennefer’s Silver Wraith. Even with the magic boost the ride from Kaer Morhen would take hours.

“Why the bloody hell are we waiting?” Roche looked to Ciri. “Could he not have traveled with you?”

She sighed. “Captain Roche, as I explained Geralt is not a fan of portal travel, much like you. Besides, would you not wish to ride in a Silver Wraith if you could?”

He pressed his lips together. “You spend far too much time with those women, Cirilla. Answering a question with a question is something Yennefer of Vengerberg or Triss Merigold might do, but I expect more of you.”

She grinned. “I shall take that as a compliment.” Hiking up her pant leg, Roche argued with her more.

“Gods, Cirilla! Perhaps your guardians neglected to tell you about proper behavior!”

Ciri’s rich laughter filled Roche’s offer as she pointed her ankle. “It’s an ankle holster; it's damned uncomfortable, I’m not sold this is the best way to carry a revolver.”

“Ah, yes. Forgive me.” Roche opened a draw and tossed a pouch to her. “Here, this slides through your belt; it’s considered far safer until you’ve built your skills.”

The ringing phone on his desk cut through the conversation. “About bloody time!” Ciri grabbed it first, knowing Geralt wouldn’t want to talk with Roche.

A smile grew as she listened to Geralt’s voice on the phone, as he’d promised. “I’m here. Tell Vern to give me thirty minutes and then it’s his show.” Geralt disconnected from his end leaving Ciri to pass along his message.

Thanking the dock manager for the use of the phone, Geralt traveled along the back alleys to the sewer entrance of The Bathhouse. Iorveth’s handiwork seen at every post, not a single member of Dijkstra’s men stood watch, all sleeping thanks to sleep-inducing drink. Even the troll slept content with a teddy bear and boxes of cookies, not drugged, but happy. Geralt sought to remind Ciri to help place the poor creature in Skellige or even take him to Corvo Bianco and let him guard the wine cellars.

Iorveth waited atop a crate. “Do me a favor Gwynnbleidd,” the elf hopped down, “don’t harm the creature. I asked what he wanted to keep quiet and you see it -cookies and a toy.” A short silence hung between them until Iorveth continued. “You’re looking well, for a dead man.”

Straightening his coat, Geralt agreed. “Yen. Seems Letho missed anything vital, and it was a poisoned apple that sent me crashing down.”

Iorveth led the way up. “So it was the fair maiden who saved the prince in this tale. Leave it to humans to foul up a good story.”

Rather than pick a fight, Geralt turned to humor. “Why are you here again? Besides offering the latest lecture on why elves are superior to all others?”

“I want to see Dijkstra’s face when they arrest him. Call it a moral imperative, giving Novigrad back to the people.”

Geralt understood enough of the atrocities over the years to elves and those deemed undesirable in the Realms. Roche didn’t care; he wouldn’t turn his back on the city as Dijkstra had done. “Where’s the steward?” Iorveth’s silence prompted Geralt to halt their steps. “I thought I told you no one dies.”

Walking on Iorveth explained. “He’s tied up, he wouldn’t cooperate. When I left him, he lived.”

Reaching the ladder to the main floor, Geralt checked his stashed Colt revolver and his ankle holster. A loud sigh of disgust led the witcher to see the elf’s displeasure. “What? Swords are impractical in Dijkstra’s office, I will not kill him, it’s a precaution.”

“I weep for witchers everywhere, the White Wolf has turned to barbarism.”

Geralt rolled his shoulders. “Can it. We’ve got limited time before Roche busts down the doors.”

 

______

 

Dijkstra’s office lay empty. Geralt removed his coat and sat in the large chair checking the remaining time.   _Less than twenty minutes,_ he thought, pressing the call button to Dijkstra’s private chambers.

 A groggy, angry voice carried through the speaker. “Sod off, I’m resting.”

Geralt pressed the call button again, longer this time; once more, Dijkstra’s voice yelled through the intercom. Letting the tirade end, Geralt laughed and pressed the call button repeatedly waiting for the heavy tread of a very pissed off Dijkstra, and as expected Geralt didn’t have to wait long.

A steady stream of obscenities and threats followed the clomping steps of Sigismund Dijkstra into his office. The resounding crash of the door against heavily burdened bookcases sent piles collapsing all around the room as Dijkstra entered his office and turned on the lights. His faced slackened at seeing the witcher seated at his desk. “Fuck,” he stepped closer and then thought better of it, “me.”

Leaning forward, Geralt placed his hands flat on the desk. “No thanks, some things I won’t do.”

“I thought you were dead. I saw it.” Dijkstra took another tentative step forward. “No, this isn’t possible- you died. What the fuck is going on?”

Geralt fell back against the overstuffed chair. “You thought wrong, asshole.” Opening the humidor on the desk, Geralt picked through Dijkstra’s cigars, handling each one, inhaling their scent and putting them back, all to annoy. “You tried to cheat the an Craite family out of their business-mistake. You tried to frame Yen and in the process hurt Ciri-not smart. Yennefer is looking for you as well.” Geralt knew this to be a lie, but Dijkstra had always feared Yennefer’s temper and allegiances. “But what buried you, _friend_ , is you tried to have me killed. You tried to turn those closest to me against me, but you _failed_.” 

“The hell I did!” Realizing the space behind him occupied, Dijkstra turned to see Iorveth blocking the hall. The elf directed Dijkstra’s attention back inside the office.

The rising red tinge to Dijkstra’s face and stilted steps forward revealed his anger. Geralt stood and gathered his coat. “Here’s what will happen in about,” he looked at his watch, “five minutes give or take.” Waiting near the desk, he gestured toward the door. “A concerned citizen alerted Captain Roche to a certain strange affiliation and a missing monarch.”

“You wouldn’t. I had nothing to do with that, it was Philippa and you know it.” Dijkstra spat as he talked.

Geralt shrugged. “I’m dead, remember? All those witnesses? It wasn’t my call that alerted Roche,” Geralt said as he pushed past Dijkstra into the hall. “I should warn you, somehow that body ended up in your cellar; Bart, your troll was all too happy to help point it out.”

Dijsktra’s jaw dropped. “You stupid bastard, you set me up.”

Iorveth chuckled as he led Geralt toward the exit. Geralt turned around for a final farewell. “It’s like Letho said, _stupidity can cost you, but betrayal costs even more_ , and you’re about to get hit with a hefty bill.”

In no hurry, Geralt and Iorveth walked a slow path back to the ladder, turning as soon as Roche and his men burst through the front door. He watched a few moments, Iorveth descending first; Dijkstra’s protests and threats flying free as he struggled against the restraints.

Ciri waited watching the troll sleep. She jumped from her perch and waved as Iorveth left them alone. “Before you even ask, no, we can’t take him with us, but see if he’ll consider Toussaint at the vineyard.” Geralt looked at the troll sleeping. “Tell him he can bring the teddy bear.”     

She nodded, her expression taking a serious turn. “Is it done?”

“Yes,” Geralt said.

Ciri’s eyes met his. “Do you think it’s over?”

His attempt to lighten her mood carried in the slight up curve to the corners of his lips and a playful sideways hug. “For now,” he said, leading her toward the crumbled wall. “Maybe.”

Her light laughter carried him out into the night, and she promised to reach out to Yennefer soon. Geralt slipped into his dark coat and climbed up onto the street. A short, shrill whistle cut through the night. Within seconds, the deep revving of Roach’s engine called to Geralt, reminding him of the long road back to Kaer Morhen and a certain sorceress waiting for his return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking through this despite the long delays. Many thanks to etaeternum for her insight and nudging. Letho's line "Stupidity can cost you, but betrayal costs even more" is not mine and is taken from the Witcher 3:the Wild Hunt as is Ciri's "Is it done?" 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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